Changing Tides
by ScintillatingTart
Summary: There were always things that could not be said, must not ever be said.
1. Chapter 1

I don't own Downton Abbey, never shall, never will. Please dinnae sue me for writing this nonsense; you'd not get much blood from this stone.

Changing Tides  
by ScintillatingTart

* * *

I:

* * *

There were always things that could not be said, must not ever be said. They danced around one another like moths and the open flame of a candle; too close and they would be singed, too far, and they would lose the warmth, the heat, the precious light of one another. Elsie Hughes knew the temptations far too well of loving one's best friend, and she kept the strings on her feelings tightly tied and kept the little bag tightly affixed to her chatelaine – a part of her, close to her side at all times, but never interfering with her work. And, of course, he must never know how she truly felt.

It wasn't realistic to expect for Charles Carson, the staid and steady butler of Downton Abbey, to be anything but staid and responsible. If he had any affection for her beyond the vague bond of deep friendship they had forged out of the fires of mutual strife in the household over the years, he had hardly shown it but once or twice, and never enough for her to believe it to be anything but a passing glimmer of fancy. All men had them. She couldn't afford to be swayed by a moment's fancy, even now – especially now.

She hummed lowly to herself as she sorted through the piles of old things in storage; Lady Grantham had asked her to personally to go through a few of the chests and sort the antiques in them into several piles – 'sellable', 'giftable', 'valuable', and 'junk'. So far, she had found scores of moth-eaten old linens that were destined for the scrap heap, several bundles of stained letters from the second Earl to his wife, and a couple of brooches with broken clasps and missing stones. Her back was beginning to protest and she was fighting the urge to sneeze.

The Great War had come at such a high price; so many men lost, the economy in tatters, fields with no laborers to till them, great houses standing empty because their inhabitants had been killed in the trenches or had emigrated to save their fortunes. Downton Abbey was not immune to the pinch of the ever-tightening corset strings of the penny pinchers, and Elsie knew why Lady Grantham was desperate to find a few hidden gems in the offing, despite the unspoken words: the family needed money. It was simply that. She could not say it aloud, but it was there nonetheless.

Moving into the next chest of drawers, Elsie found more linens, more letters – this time, what looked to be letters from, well, no, that could hardly be Queen Adelaide, _could it really?_, to one of the Countesses – and, bless and blimey! There was a jewel case, but it was locked and none of her keys fit the lock. She would definitely have to carry it downstairs and see if one of the myriad of ancient keys in storage in Mr. Carson's pantry would open the lock. Who knew what could possibly be inside – or if it was empty? There was only one way to find out.

She took the steps quickly, by twos, nimble on her feet as a woman half her age – scampering around Argyll as a mischievous child had seen her fleet of foot and very quick to outrun her father's lash. But the sneeze caught up with her mid-step, knocking her feet right out from under her.

Elsie Hughes felt the steps rush up to meet her ribs first, the heavy jewel case flying from her hands as though it weighed nothing at all. Then Sir Isaac Newton rolled over in his grave laughing as gravity caught up with her; she continued to skid down the steps, apace, rolling slightly onto her back so her spine dragged over the ragged wood, and the box came crashing down against the uppermost portion of her head just as she had almost gotten out of the way of it. She did not cry out; the pain was too great to make a sound. She just continued her downward descent until the staircase ended, and there, at the bottom, she closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall.

She would be fine; she just needed a moment to rest before she tried to get up and get help.

* * *

"It's not like Herself to be late for tea," O'Brien drawled derisively, helping herself to another biscuit since Mrs. Hughes wasn't there to fix an icy glare on her for overstepping boundaries of propriety.

"No, it isn't," Anna agreed quietly. "Mr. Carson, you haven't seen Mrs. Hughes this afternoon, by chance? Only I've not seen her since luncheon – she had a meeting with her Ladyship just after."

Charles Carson glanced up from his cup of tea, trying to remain calm, unflappable, despite the very unsettling knowledge that Mrs. Hughes was not present at his side. She was always there, every mealtime, every teatime, every appropriate moment of the day when the heads of household were permitted to be together, they were together. That she was not there was rattling him to the very core. "Perhaps she is in her sitting room?" he suggested.

"Mrs. Hughes never misses tea," Barrow pointed out lazily. "She can't stand to not have a biscuit."

"Mr. Barrow, I'll thank you to keep your comments to yourself," Carson snapped. "What Mrs. Hughes eats at teatime is none of your business."

"She's not in her sitting room," Daisy said from the doorway as she brought in another pot of tea. "Only I checked already 'cause I didn't want her to be missin' the ginger shortbreads. They're her favorite."

Carson stood up, and everyone else with him, chairs dragging quickly across the floor. He waved his hands placatingly for the others to sit down again. "I will get to the bottom of this; I'm certain that Mrs. Hughes has just gone for a lie-down and is right as rain," he said, his voice betraying none of the panic he felt inside. The weather outside was blustery and rainy; surely she hadn't gone out to the village or further? Surely she was still inside the house. She would have told him if she was leaving. She always did. "Mr. Barrow, if I am not back in time to ring the dressing gong, I would implore you to do so."

"Mr. Carson, I wouldn't think it would take you very long to find the housekeeper," Barrow said in a most sarcastic manner that made Carson want to cuff him round the ears. _Ungrateful welp_.

"I hope you're not inferring anythin' at all improper about Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes, Thomas," O'Brien said in a sharp tone.

"I took tea in to Mrs. Hughes and her Ladyship earlier," Alfred said quickly. "I think Mrs. Hughes was going to be going up to the storage attics to look through some old things – maybe she just lost track of time."

"And you didn't think to mention this to anyone, Alfred?" Carson rumbled, sounding far angrier than he intended to. Worry was clouding his better judgement; there was no one in the house that he was more concerned for than Elsie Hughes, not even his employers, though he was loathe to admit it – and if asked to perjure himself on the stand, he would do so.

"I didn't want anyone to think I were eavesdropping," Alfred said defensively. "Because I weren't."

"Don't be stupid, Alfred," Thomas scolded, "that's just overhearing –"

"Eavesdropping is what Mr. Barrow does," O'Brien said curtly, "lurking in corners."

Carson put up his hands in resignation with a sigh. "I will go remind Mrs. Hughes that teatime waits for no one," he said. "Daisy, will you please have Mrs. Patmore set aside a small tray for Mrs. Hughes and brew a fresh pot of tea when I've found Mrs. Hughes?"

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Daisy said cheerfully. "But we're out of the ginger shortbreads now."

"Serves her right for missing teatime," O'Brien commented wryly.

Carson refrained from pointing out that she was in the process of eating her fourth of said biscuit and instead turned on his heel and headed for the attics. The storage attics were on the opposite wing of the house from the servants' quarters, so he had a choice to make. Either he chose to see if the housekeeper was just having a nap, or if she was scrounging around in the dust and muck.

He decided it was more likely to be the latter, and headed for the storage attics with a renewed vigor to his step. He didn't like being separated from her for very long; they were very similar in temperament and deportment, no matter how she would splutter and "I'll have you know what a lie that is" to anyone who would listen, but she was kind and gentle where he was firm and unyielding. They made a well-oiled machine, each giving as well as they could, taking as little as they could, making it work when no one else could. She steadied him and he lifted her. He looked forward to a day when he could step away from the pressures of this life and maybe take her with him – but it was maybe a foolish dream, because what woman in her right mind would want him?

The storage attics were comprised of seven large rooms; one for paintings, one for ceramics, and the rest for furniture that was packed with miscellaneous items of god only knew what. Every room was a riot of god forsaken chaos, and Charles hated them with a passion – no one knew what on earth was up there, aside from the historian, who, even with an inventory, didn't know where anything was, or even if it was really there or not. So if Mrs. Hughes had been sent up there to look for something in particular, where had she been sent?

He hedged his bets and headed toward one of the furniture rooms, the farthest one. The electric lighting was feeble, and no sign of inhabitation – only thick layers of dust, grime, and spiders' webs were evident. So he moved to the next room, the one with steps that led up into the tower.

The first thing he saw upon opening the door was her shoes; small, delicate feet in sturdy low boots as she preferred for working, her reasoning being if she dropped something on her foot, her toes and instep were more protected that way. A jewel box lay on the bottom step, cracked open, a king's ransom of diamonds, pearls, and emeralds scattered over the floor and the steps.

"Mrs. Hughes?" he called softly as he came in, worry gnawing in the pit of his gut, churning away suddenly with a fury that surprised him. There was no response, and as he turned left and saw her fully, he knew why.

Blood had dribbled down her face from a cut on the top of her head, drying to a dark crust on her cheek. Her right leg was at an unnatural angle, clearly broken, as if she had fallen down the stairs. She was breathing, steadily, but showed no sign of rousing at the sound of his voice, nor sign that indeed she heard him at all.

"Elsie," he began, then stopped, trying to collect his thoughts into one coherent string. "Mrs. Hughes, I cannot move you – I must go call for Dr. Clarkson. I don't want to leave you, but I must. Please don't be upset with me, but I must – if you wake up while I'm gone, please know that I will be back soon as I can be…" He squeezed her hand and pressed a kiss to her forehead, trying to impress on her unconscious nature that he would return as soon as he could.

And then he was off at a run. He had not run since he was a child; it was not stately, it was not gentlemanly. Even in the cricket, he did not so much run as lope. But this… this was a run, a dead run, borne of fear and terror and knowledge that if he did not do it, she might die, and even if he did, she might yet die still. And if she died and it was because of him, because he had not done right by her, oh, god, what would he do?

He did not make it downstairs to use his own phone, propriety be damned; he stopped to use the family phone in the Great Hall, jamming on the cradle until the operator's voice came down the line. "This is Downton Abbey, Carson the butler speaking – I need the Downton Hospital, Dr. Clarkson, immediately. It is an emergency of the utmost imperative nature. I said – it is an emergency, Mrs. Hart!"

"Carson, old chap, what on earth –" Lord Grantham said as he made his presence known.

"My lord, Mrs. Hughes –" Carson was out of breath, his run through the house showcasing just how out of shape he was, just how far he had failed himself and the house. The line flared to life again. "Hello, Dr. Clarkson?"

"Carson, what's happened? What has happened?"

Carson closed his eyes, picturing her in his mind, stark reality burning the image onto the back of his eyelids angrily. "Mrs. Hughes has taken a fall down a flight of stairs in the storage attics, Dr. Clarkson," he said, willing the panic to stay at bay for as long as it would. "At the very least, she has broken her leg and has done herself a head injury; she is unconscious, and I cannot say how long she has been injured."

There was a tense silence, then Clarkson said, "I'm dispatching the ambulance; do not attempt to move Mrs. Hughes by yourself, Carson."

"I haven't," Carson said, his voice wavering for the first time. "I couldn't. I was afraid to do her more injury."

"Have someone pack a bag with necessaries for Mrs. Hughes," Clarkson ordered. "She may be in hospital for some days. Carson, try not to worry until we know what we're dealing with – it may be nothing at all."

Carson replaced the receiver in its home and closed his eyes, leaning weakly into the table, thinking about Elsie upstairs, unconscious and broken, bleeding, possibly dying or worse – and his shoulders began to shake with the effort of repressing the tidal wave of emotion that threatened to overtake and drown him. Lord Grantham came up to him and held up a glass of whisky and Carson shook his head; he needed a clear head, needed to think, to feel, to not be numb to it. He needed to be raw and bleeding and stripped bare to the shanks and beaten, just as she had been, tumbling down the stairs. Only hers had been an accident – his had been by design. By choosing to love her, he had opened himself to this pain, this torment. This was his payment in kind, his punishment for wishing to love.

"She will be all right," Lord Grantham assured him.

"I wish I could be so certain." The words were hollow, brittle, on his tongue.

* * *

Anna brought up a bucket with a cleaning solution to get the blood out of the plaster on the wall, along with a wad of rags and a determined, if worried, face. "Mr. Carson, you should get going if you mean to go to the hospital with Mrs. Patmore," she said softly.

"It would be inappropriate," he said simply. "At least tonight. I will assist you in cleaning up the mess."

"She will be all right, won't she?" Anna murmured, beginning to scrub the wall, taking away the caked on discoloration of blood – Mrs. Hughes's blood – and leaving shining ivory plaster in its wake. "I mean, people fall down the stairs all the time and don't die."

"Yes, and sometimes, people fall down the stairs and do die," he pointed out angrily as he began to gather up the jewels that he suspected to have been the start of all of the mess in the first place. If he found out that Elsie had fallen because of the box of gems, he would be beyond angry – it might be enough to cause him to rethink his employment. If she died because of a few precious stones, his precious Elsie… it didn't bear thinking of. He was full of pain, conflict, and did not want to do anything he might regret later, but – _oh, please, Lord, don't allow her to die. Not over these trinkets._

"Mr. Carson, please forgive me for… overstepping," Anna said, "but I know you care for Mrs. Hughes. We all do. And she cares for you. It's like having a mum and a dad downstairs; it's nice. But you need to tell her. You need to tell her you love her – even if you only care for her like a friend, or a sister. She needs to know in case she does die. She needs to know she's not alone – that she's loved." Anna's voice was shaking, and she was near tears. "I need to tell her – she's like… she's like my sister… like my mum…"

Carson knew it wasn't right, it wasn't appropriate, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore. He reached out and pulled Anna into an embrace, holding her tightly like he would a child, comforting her and allowing her to cry it out. He wished he could cry like that, that he could just blubber out his anguish at having seen Mrs. Hughes – Elsie – near death only a few feet from where they were stood just now. How he had only kept it together by a wing and a prayer and how he had no idea how he was going to put one foot in front of the other without her to guide him, to steady him. How he depended on her, how he loved her – how he longed to hear her voice even now.

"I love her like the sun loves the sky," he whispered. "Or the fish love the sea."

"You cannot live without her," Anna murmured through her sniffling sobs.

"Like you and your Mr. Bates," Carson said knowingly. "Though you might get burned, Anna –"

"Yes, I know well enough," Anna sighed. "But… he is the air that I need to breathe, Mr. Carson. Like Mrs. Hughes is to you. You must tell her. You must. So that she knows."

"It wouldn't be appropriate –"

"You can't keep lying to yourself," Anna said, pulling out of his arms and going back to her cleaning. "And if she dies… wouldn't it be better to have not lied to her?"

Maybe it was better that she wasn't looking at him; he couldn't bear for her to see the pain on his face as he went back to cleaning up the scattered mess of gemstones and pearls. He couldn't bear for anyone to see him like this; out of control and not at all like Carson the butler. Not at all reliable and staid.

He was unrecognizable, even to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

II:

* * *

"There now," Beryl Patmore said gruffly, tucking the blanket in a little tighter around Mrs. Hughes. The two women might have their arguments and their strife, but they were closer than most sisters, in the end, and she was honored to call Mrs. Hughes a true and dear friend. She had packed a bag with the barest of necessities for Dr. Clarkson the night before – a nightgown, a dressing gown, socks, a change of knickers, a shift – but in the harsh light of day, she'd felt it necessary to go into the housekeeper's private domain again and hunt for the things that might make her happier.

And that's how Beryl came to be sitting at Elsie Hughes's bedside with a copy of Jane Austen's _Persuasion _– though how Elsie could read such folderol with a straight face, she'd never know – and a bag of nice clothes and lovely things for her friend's bedside was at the ready. "Himself is at loose ends, you know," Beryl said softly. "You've given him a right scare, Mrs. Hughes, make no mistake."

She leaned forward and took Elsie's hand in both of hers and sighed. "You've given us all a scare, love. Even Lady Mary is worried about you – can you imagine? Can you even begin to imagine that? She actually sent her love and best wishes for your recovery. But knowing her, it's more likely to be a curse in disguise, so…" Beryl laughed and squeezed her friend's hand tightly. "You need to wake up, Elsie. I don't care how long it takes you to do it, you need to wake up – for me, lassie. Just to show them that we're not just old girls; we're stronger than all of them together, you and me. Remember? You promised when I went to London for my eyes? You promised we'd fight 'em all to the bitter end? This ain't the end, Elsie Hughes. It can't be the end. You know why? Because it's a stupid end. You fallin' down the stairs is a stupid way to go. A stupid, stupid way to go." Beryl paused to swipe angrily at her eyes with the back of her hand, ridding herself of her tears. "So you come back to me, y'hear, so we can do this properly, now – we're going to outlive them all and we're going to die at the seashore, watching the tide come in. Do you understand me, lass?"

There wasn't a response, though she hadn't really expected one.

"I'm going to write to Baker House," Beryl said softly, "and take over the payments for your sister's care, until you're well enough to do it again. It makes no sense to rob a woman on death's own doorstep to pay for her sister to be cared for. And, no, I won't be telling Himself, and no one else – not unless I have to. Not unless I have to, Elsie Hughes. It's not my secret to tell, is it?"

Dr. Clarkson came into the room and said, "Her condition is stable, but not improving, Mrs. Patmore. I take it she doesn't have any family members we should notify of her condition –"

"She's got a sister," Beryl said, "but her sister isn't capable of having power of attorney or making medical decisions in her stead, Dr. Clarkson – she lives in a home called Baker House in Lytham St. Anne's for mental incurables."

Dr. Clarkson nodded. "I've heard of Baker House. Mrs. Hughes must love her sister very much to be willing to pay for such excellent care – it is one of the best homes in the whole of England," he said softly.

"She would do anything for her Becky," Beryl said sharply. "And so will I, since she's in no condition to do anything for her at the moment. And, if there is a need, I should think you would come to me to make any decisions for Mrs. Hughes's medical care for the time being – me or Mr. Carson."

"Not Lord Grantham?"

"We're her family," Beryl said obstinately. "Mr. Carson and me, we're close as brother and sisters should be, just as much as we ever had of our own. And we're going to take care of her like she's family, Dr. Clarkson." She reached up and swiped at her eyes again, angry that she was crying so much. "How is she, really?"

"The fracture in her leg was a simple break and it will heal well enough with no interference," Clarkson said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Her head injury, however… I have no way of knowing. She hit her head very hard, Mrs. Patmore, and I don't honestly know if she will ever recover. She may never wake up. She might regain consciousness and be brain damaged. She may regain consciousness and be just fine. You never know with traumatic brain injuries. But the longer she is unconscious, the more we need to consider that she may not be coming back to us."

"You can consider that all you like," Beryl shot back, "but I'm not going to give up faith in her just because you think she's been out a little bit too long. God works in mysterious ways, Dr. Clarkson, and if we pray long enough and hard enough, He's going to listen and answer our prayers."

"And if he doesn't?"

She faltered for a moment, then exhaled shakily. "Then she'll die in her sleep, which would be a mercy. A small mercy. But if that doesn't happen, then I'm going to believe she's meant to keep on fighting till the very end." She nodded defiantly and gathered her small bag, hat, and gloves. "Good day to you, Dr. Clarkson."

Her walk back to the Abbey was short and full of muttering and frustration and kicking tree branches off the path. She might not be as spry as she'd been in her youth, but she was damned if she wasn't just as wily as she'd ever been. And she was not happy. How dare the doctor discount Mrs. Hughes's chances of recovery so soon after the injury? How dare he look down his nose at her taking responsibility for Mrs. Hughes's care? How _dare_ he? How _**dare**_ he? She would bloody well show him the flat side of a skillet if he so much as told her one more time that she needed to prepare for the worst –

"Mr. Carson, what are you doing here?" she said with surprise as she kicked a stone off the path and basically hopped herself right into Mr. Carson's bulky way, knocking them both to the ground. "Bleedin' heck, man –"

"I am on my way to the hospital to – to –"

"To see our girl," Beryl said, her face falling as he helped her to her feet again. "She's not doing any better today than she was when you found her last night," she warned. "Maybe a little worse – it's hard to keep her warm, and they don't want to waste time putting a nurse in there to watch her."

He nodded slowly, and she watched him for a long moment, knowing just how he felt – lost, confused, a little dazed, like the rug that you thought was a constant presence under your feet had just been yanked out from under you and you were trying to catch your footing before you fell. "I should have come with you before, but I had to wait for the wine delivery – they were late," he said gruffly.

"Time and tide wait for no wine," she muttered. "She understands, Charles. Just tell her, you stupid man. Just tell her you love her. There's no harm in it, is there? It might help. It certainly can't hurt."

"And if she awakens and doesn't feel the same?" he challenged.

"Then we deal with that chicken when it comes to roost," Beryl shot back. "The doctor made it pretty clear to me that he thinks she's going to die, so the least you can do is try to make bloody peace with yourself before she goes, Charles. I'm going to do everything I can to keep her from going off to them pearly gates, short of dragging her back from St. Peter's line myself, but you… you're one of the only other people on this earth that would keep her here. So you do your bit, Charles Carson. You do your bit, you hear me?" She was very nearly crying again, so she flounced around on her heel and stalked off, furious that she couldn't keep her emotions in check for longer than a few minutes at a time. Not to mention that her pig-headed friend the butler was far too stubborn to admit that he was in love with the housekeeper and had been almost since the day she'd arrived at Downton.

She wasn't sure which made her angrier.

Then she remembered the condescending superiority in Dr. Clarkson's tone and felt an overwhelming rage; that was what made her angriest. That was what was going to keep her going. That was what was going to keep her pulling through the hardest days ahead. Sheer bloody mule stubbornness and a desire to punch his bloody teeth down his bloody throat.

* * *

Elsie Hughes was a force of nature: the tiny woman in the hospital cot might have had Elsie's face, but she had none of Mrs. Hughes's charisma, infectious joy, teasing smile… she was just a tiny woman shrouded in dingy blankets with a large bandage wrapped around her head. Carson swallowed hard, a dark pit of nausea curling up in his stomach as he contemplated the pale woman before him.

If he wasn't such a coward, she never would have been on those stairs. If he'd been any kind of a man at all, if he had only – if he had only been willing to admit to himself that the regard that he felt for the housekeeper went far beyond what was considered to be _proper_, they could have left Downton Abbey years before, been married, had a family, had a shop, been happy… But instead, he was standing in the doorway of her hospital room, and she was laying abed, mayhaps even dying. And it was his fault. Because he was a damnable coward.

His beautiful, wise, wry Elsie might be gone forever, and he had never been able to tell her that he cared far more than was ever meant to be permissible between friends. Their nightly sherry meant the world to him; the night before, he had lost control and thrown his full sherry glass across the room, shattering it and leaving a stained mess in his pantry. Only that morning, he had decided he didn't care. It hurt too much.

He finally took the last few steps into the room and sat down at her bedside, gently taking her hand in his, holding it close and kissing it. "Elsie," Carson whispered, "I know it's been a long time since we've used Christian names – not since you became housekeeper. But you're very sick, dearest, and I think it's allowed now, don't you?" He waited for a long moment, hoping against all hope for some kind of a sign that she could hear him, that she was listening. When none came, he sighed. "I'm sorry, Elsie. I'm sorry I didn't come with you last night. I couldn't. I was frightened. I was terrified. If you were going to die, I couldn't be there when it happened – I couldn't lose you. Not like that. Not like that, dearest." He gently stroked her braided hair and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "I love you, Elsie Hughes. More than anything else in this world, I love you – and, yes, I have been ever so remiss in not telling you this until now, but you nearly dying last night has shifted my priorities rather a little bit. And I want you to know that there is no one else on this earth that I will ever love as I do you; if you open your eyes for me, love, ever again – it doesn't have to be today, or tomorrow, or even the next day, dearest love – you will make me the happiest man alive." He stopped speaking then, too overcome by tears to continue; instead, he lay his head on the bed next to her hand and just stayed close as he wept softly.

When he could speak again, he said, "I know it is not dignified for a gentleman to cry in the presence of a lady, but I am not a gentleman, and you are not a lady, my dearest." He kissed her fingertips, wishing she was capable of responding to him – but she was not, and he was so very scared to lose her that he did not want to let go just yet. Not yet.

Dr. Clarkson cleared his throat. "Mr. Carson, may I speak with you in private, please?"

"Elsie, I'll be back in a few minutes," Carson whispered, kissing her fingers again, praying in the back of his mind for a miracle, knowing that God was probably angry with him and not exactly in the miracle granting kind of a mood. He followed the doctor into his consultation rooms, and sat opposite the desk.

"I'll not beat around the bush – I tried to tell Mrs. Patmore of Mrs. Hughes's condition and she became belligerent, defiant, and…"

"She's frightened for Mrs. Hughes," Carson said. "As am I."

"Mrs. Hughes had a simple fracture which will heal cleanly; her head injury is complex and I do not know that she will recover. There is no guarantee that she will ever regain consciousness. If she does regain consciousness, there is reason to suspect that she will have a high level of cognitive impairment – brain damage – from the seriousness of the blow to her head. Or, she could wake up and be completely fine. Or she could slip away in her sleep and – and there are no guarantees, Mr. Carson. I cannot predict what will happen. But you must prepare for the worst."

Carson nodded slowly. "The worst being…"

"That she may wake up and be little more than a vegetable; that she may not know you, or anyone else around her. That she may not know how to walk or read or speak. That she may never again properly be the Elsie Hughes you know and care for."

Carson took a deep breath and nodded. "But she would be alive."

"What kind of a life is that, Carson?"

"I have made many mistakes in my life, Dr. Clarkson," Carson said with sudden dignity and gravity, "but the only one that I will trot out publicly and put on display is that I did not ask Mrs. Hughes to become Mrs. Carson when I had the chance. For me, any kind of life that she would have would be preferable to the alternative – even if I had to pay my entire life's savings to see her cared for because I could not do it myself. If she regains consciousness, I will be happy, no matter what state she is in, simply because she is alive, and has opened her eyes, doctor."

Dr. Clarkson leaned back in his chair and stroked his moustache for a moment, then sighed. "Mr. Carson, since Mrs. Patmore has insisted that you and she are Mrs. Hughes's next of kin, then I would be remiss if I did not tell you that my prognosis for Mrs. Hughes is incredibly low. I do not expect her to recover; the injury to her head is far more severe than many of the war injuries that killed lesser men in their beds in this very hospital. I would be giving you false hope if I said that she had even a small amount of a chance of recovery."

Carson pressed his lips together into a thin line, stifling the raging scream that threatened to burst through him, and instead merely nodded his acknowledgement of the doctor's words. He did not, would not, could not believe them – because if he lost faith for even one moment that she could come back to him, he would lose himself completely.

"Eventually, there will be a decision to be made because you and Mrs. Patmore cannot afford to care for Mrs. Hughes in hospital indefinitely –"

"No, we cannot do that, you are correct," Carson agreed quietly. "But for the time being, yes, she should remain here under watch."

The doctor frowned a bit more, then said, "Carson, you may stay with her whenever is convenient for you. If that is in the evening after serving the family, so be it – I can have a second cot brought into the room, should you care to rest there."

"I shouldn't like to interfere with the hospital –"

"You wouldn't be," Clarkson assured him. "And it might do you both good. It certainly can't do any harm, at least not at the moment. You would probably be more attentive to Mrs. Hughes's needs than the shift nurses would be, as far as making her comfortable and the like."

Carson felt emotion threatening to overwhelm him again, and it was all he could do just to squeak out, "Thank you." He was turning circles in his mind, trying to think of who he could leave in charge of the house in his absence, but he was too drained, too tired, too fried and fragile and entirely too broken to think straight at that moment. "I need to get back to her, then back to the Abbey – His Lordship is expecting an update on Mrs. Hughes's condition."

"Stable," Clarkson said. "Her condition is stable."

Carson nodded and rose from his seat, heading back to Elsie's room. She was just the same as he had left her, which made him feel inexplicably hopeful; hopeful that one day, he would go away and come back and something would have changed in the meanwhile that was not due to the nurses and their ghastly feeding tubes. Something that would signify that Elsie had opened her eyes and was now only resting instead of in some hellish coma that he couldn't pull her out of.

"I'm going to have to go back to the Abbey," he said softly, "but I'll come back tonight. I promise, Elsie. And I'll read to you – I borrowed a book of poetry from His Lordship that I think you will enjoy by a sprightly fellow called Burns…" He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "We will get through this, Elsie Hughes. I promise you this – we will get through this, together, my dearest darling one."

Leaving her was very nearly the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do; but he did it. Duty, honor, pride. He was a man of integrity, duty, honor, and pride. He was the butler of Downton Abbey, steadfast, loyal, and true.

But his heart lay in a hospital cot in the village.


	3. Chapter 3

III:

* * *

"There's a lass," Carson cooed softly into Elsie's ear as he supported her body against his. They'd worked out a routine whereby they saved the last tube feeding of the day for when he'd come for the night and could help with the setup. He was gentle and never did anything to harm Elsie, just held her up and carefully allowed the nurse to thread the tube down her throat. Thin, cold gruel was poured down the tube, and he held her upright for half an hour before carefully settling her back into bed.

He had seen the best and worst of her comatose life and it left him numb; she was hooked up to a saline drip five times a day for fluids to survive, since she could not drink. She was force fed a liquid diet three times a day since she could not eat. She wore great cloth nappies that the nurses changed every few hours – and he had assisted on more than one occasion. He was no longer ashamed of any part of her care, because he knew that every bit of it was necessary in order to keep her alive – to keep her just that much closer to him.

He stroked Elsie's hair and sang softly in her ear, barely more than a whisper, some nonsense that he vaguely remembered from his grandmother when he was but a tiny lad. But it was soothing, gentle, and it was what he always sang during the feedings – it calmed him as much as he hoped it would calm her.

Six weeks was a long time. Her leg hadn't quite healed yet, due to the malnutrition from the liquid diet, so she still had the infernal cast on her lower leg. The rest of her was painfully thin, gaunt, her skin translucent and unnaturally stretchy. Her hair had lost its shiny luster and he knew if she had opened her eyes, they wouldn't have sparkled.

"I'm sorry, my love," he whispered. "I'm so sorry…"

He thought briefly to the first time the tube had gone in wrong and she had aspirated the gruel, nearly choking to death on the watery mix – it had been excruciating for him, holding her, trying to clear her airway, get the tube out, force her to breathe again. He'd never forgotten the nightmarish ten minutes, nor how close he and the shift nurse had come to losing her, and he had never forgiven himself for being so careless. They were much more careful now, checking and double checking everything before the gruel was pumped into her stomach.

"You know if I didn't have to do this, I wouldn't," Carson murmured. "Oh, Elsie, dearest, I wish you would open those beautiful blue eyes for me… Do you know what I miss most of all? Breakfast in the servants' hall when we're sharing a bit of toast and tea and you smile at me like you know all the problems of the world mean absolutely nothing in the face of what's to come today. I miss that more than you will ever know, Elsie, love." He nuzzled her hair, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as the nurse finished pumping gruel into her. "All done, lass – all done. Good girl… good girl," he praised softly, knowing she didn't hear him anyway. "I love you."

He held her up and read to her from a new book from H. G. Wells that he had kidnapped from Lord Grantham's library, wishing that she would retain some of the information when she awoke, because it really was quite an entertaining novel. At the appointed end of the half hour, he tucked her back into bed and made her as comfortable as possible.

"My sweet darling," Carson said gently, "I wish you could tell me what more I could do to help you." With a heavy sigh, he leaned in and kissed her forehead, stroking her hair tenderly. "I'll be in my bed just there if you need me in the night, Elsie, love. You just cry for me – just cry out, darling, and I'll come running."

Dr. Clarkson hadn't left for the night; he had just finished cleaning up after the delivery of Mrs. Gower's twins and was checking up when he knocked on the door. "Mr. Carson? Uneventful evening?"

"Very much so," Carson said, buttoning the top button of his pajama top.

"I've been thinking that maybe we've been remiss in not bringing Mrs. Hughes's sister to visit her," Dr. Clarkson said. "It might spark something in her. She might respond to her where she hasn't responded to you or Mrs. Patmore –"

Carson blinked. _Sister_? Elsie had a _sister_? Elsie had a sister and she hadn't seen fit to tell him? "Mrs. Hughes has a sister?" he said very softly.

Clarkson stopped and blinked. "You… didn't know… that she has a sister."

"No. No, I did not know that Mrs. Hughes has a sister."

"Mrs. Patmore –"

"Mrs. Patmore knows of Mrs. Hughes's sister?" Carson said, feeling his impressive self-control beginning to slip. "How convenient. I shall have to have a word with her in the morning. I cannot believe that she would mean to keep such an important detail to herself."

"Mr. Carson, I do believe I have misspoken in my turn – Mrs. Patmore has been paying for Miss Rebecca Hughes's medical care during Mrs. Hughes's convalescence. I have been assisting Mrs. Patmore with understanding the medical reports that Blake House sends weekly to her care of Mrs. Hughes at the Abbey," Clarkson said softly. "Miss Hughes is not capable of caring for herself and is in a care home for mental incurables – she is… complicated."

Carson felt his anger slipping away. "Complicated."

"She is a genius," Clarkson said. "A mathematician of world-wide renown, famous for solving numerous equations that calculate distances between stars to within millimeters, and other things… But she cannot read beyond a fifth year primer, is blind in one eye, has tics and seizures… they do not know what causes her inability to function in the world at large, but Mrs. Hughes has never once given up on her. And neither shall we."

"Why wouldn't she have told me of her sister?" Carson asked, looking over at Elsie, feeling as though he'd been punched in the gut. "Why would she have kept that from me?"

"People are very cruel about what they don't understand," Clarkson said. "She must have fretted that you would react badly, so she never told you to protect Miss Rebecca." He paused, then said, "I've spoken to her on the telephone twice, with Mrs. Patmore, and she seems a cheerful sort of lass. I think we should bring her to Downton, Mr. Carson, to see her sister. Only for a few days, mind you."

"Who do you suggest to travel with her?" Carson asked darkly.

"You and Mrs. Patmore, of course," Dr. Clarkson countered.

"I cannot leave," Carson protested. "I cannot leave Elsie – I cannot leave the Abbey behind to go fetch – to go fetch some girl…"

Clarkson's face changed then, darkened somehow, twisted. "That is what she feared in you – that you would belittle her sister, make her less than she is. She is not just 'some girl', Mr. Carson. She is the sister of the woman you care for."

Carson dropped his head, shamed. "I – Dr. Clarkson, I – I know, but I still cannot leave. It is not practical. I will have to send Mrs. Patmore. Is there anyone else you can recommend? A nurse, perhaps?"

"I think Mrs. Crawley would be ideal," Dr. Clarkson said. "And she would be able to provide lodging for Miss Rebecca during her stay. She has been lamenting her inability to do anything to help Mrs. Hughes for weeks, and I would really rather shut her mouth for a few moments at least. We could send her to assist with transporting Miss Rebecca and with lodging and caring for her during her stay – she has experience with seizure patients."

"Mr. Crawley's wedding to Lady Mary is coming sooner rather than later," Carson pointed out with a sigh. "I will be forced to spend more time away from the hospital – I am not looking forward to it."

"Mr. Carson, your sentiments and dedication to Mrs. Hughes do you credit," Dr. Clarkson said not unkindly. "But you must live your own life as well."

Carson paused and smiled sadly. "She is my life, doctor."

* * *

Beryl and Mrs. Crawley stood in the anteroom, waiting quietly. They were to meet Becky first, spend the day with her, get to know her a bit, then ask if she would be willing to travel to Downton with them for a few days – the trip had already been cleared with the Blake House staff, but it felt disrespectful not to have Becky's approval of the whole notion first. Otherwise, it was no better than kidnapping, wasn't it? Even though Becky was Elsie's older sister and wasn't even technically a child anymore.

A very proper lady came through into the room; her hair was stark white, aside from one little streak of fiery auburn woven through it, coiled up into a low bun at the back of her neck, her eyes bright blue, her smile easy, if a little droopy as if she'd had a small stroke at some point – which might have been a permanent effect of the seizures. She was slightly taller than Elsie, and thinner than her sister had been before the War, but still amply curved and well-corseted. "Are you Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Crawley?" she asked in a bright brogue. Her right hand flapped repeatedly and she beamed excitedly at them. "I cannot wait to go out for tea – is Elsie to come with us?"

"No, Becky, love, Elsie isn't here," Beryl said gently. "We'll talk about it at tea, all right?"

Becky nodded and smiled wider. "I like you – you're very nice. Elsie says you're like a sister and I'm to do what you ask if you come to see me, Mrs. Patmore," she said. "I need my coat before we go. I'll be right back – it's just over there in the closet." She hurried away and came back with a nice coat that Beryl recognized as one of Elsie's cast off's. "I'd like a lemon scone today, I think – I don't get them very often. We usually have digestives or bad shortbread."

"You may have whatever you like, my dear," Mrs. Crawley said with a smile. "My treat."

"Oh, that's very nice of you," Becky said, "but I have an allowance and I can buy my own, Mrs. Crawley." Beryl noticed that her hand never stopped its flapping motion and she had to wonder if it was tiring, or if the other woman was just used to it. They strolled down the street together to a small tea shop and ducked inside as it began to splutter rain.

"Hello, Becky!" called a cheerful woman behind the counter. "Pull up a table for your friends and I'll bring a pot of tea and you can look at the menu for your treats."

"We have our special tea here every Friday," Becky explained. "Mrs. James is very nice and closes the shop for an hour for us."

"That's very kind of her, lass," Beryl said gently.

"Why didn't Elsie come with you?" Becky asked. "She hasn't sent any letters, either. I'm worried."

"That's why I'm here," Beryl said, giving Mrs. Crawley a worried glance. She wasn't at all certain how Becky was going to take the news, and she was afraid to make a fuss. "Becky, love, Elsie had an accident a few weeks ago. She fell down the stairs and hit her head – she hasn't woken up yet."

The smile left Becky's face, tears immediately gathering in her eyes. "No – no – but she has to be all right. She's all I've got left, Mrs. Patmore. We don't have a mam no more –"

"You've got me, lass," Mrs. Patmore was quick to assure her. "You've got me; I'm just like a sister, remember? Elsie told you I'm just like a sister. I'm going to take care of you just like you were me own sister. You hear me, Becky Hughes? You're my sister now, just like Elsie is." She reached over and gently grasped Becky's flapping hand and stilled it. "You're my sister, too, Miss Becky Hughes. And I take care of my sisters. Do you understand?"

"I need to see her," Becky pleaded. "I need to see my Elsie."

"That's why we're here, love," Beryl assured her. "We're going to take you to Downton to see Elsie. But I didn't want to come and tell you to just pack a bag because we were leaving – I wanted you to make the choice to come with us on your own. We'll go back tomorrow and you can stay with Mrs. Crawley and her son, Matthew."

"What about you?"

"I live at the Abbey," Beryl said dismissively. "I'm the head cook, love."

"You can make shortbread?"

"Elsie says my shortbread is better than your mam's."

Becky's tears were gone in an instant, her smile returning. "Really?"

"She was actually quite offended by it the first time," Beryl admitted, "but then it made her feel a bit happier like she knew your mam was watching down."

Becky nodded and smiled eagerly. "I love shortbread," she confessed. "The good kind, I mean – not the hard ones or the really crumbly ones where they don't mix the butter in right, like when Elsie does it and it goes all wrong. Elsie can't cook, you know. It's part of why she can't get a husband. I'm the other part. No one will take us both on. Men find out about me and they run scared." Her smile turned sad. "She had a suitor once, a man named Joe – a good man. Took almost thirty years for him to really work up the courage to ask her to actually marry him, and he didn't want her to bring me to the farm. She told me so, told me that's why she said no more than anything else."

"Oh, that's not…" Beryl bit her tongue before she could reveal anything else. "Well, that's hardly the whole story, but she would have burnt him a fair score of food and love isn't blind, lass."

Mrs. James brought a pot of tea and took their order – a lemon scone for Becky, a chocolate croissant for Mrs. Crawley, and a slice of almond tart for Beryl – and Beryl poured tea for the three women at the table, taking time to find out how everyone cared for their tea, since she'd no idea. Mrs. Crawley took very little milk and very little sugar, Becky took a lot of milk and one sugar, and Beryl was a strong sweet herself.

"Who is taking care of Elsie if you're here?" Becky asked softly.

"Elsie is living at the Downton cottage hospital under Dr. Clarkson's care," Mrs. Crawley spoke up.

"You remember Dr. Clarkson?" Beryl supplied. "You've talked to him on the telephone with me a few times now?"

Becky nodded. "He seems nice," she said. "Is he taking good care of her? I'm afraid I don't know how you would take care of someone who isn't awake to eat and drink for themselves –"

"Well, it isn't very easy," Mrs. Crawley admitted, "and it isn't very nice to watch. But she is fed several times a day by a feeding tube directly to the stomach, and she receives fluids by IV drip. She is being cared for as well as we can do, my dear."

Becky considered that for a long moment, then nodded again. "So when I go to see her, she'll be like the story? Like _Sleeping Beauty_?"

"Something like," Beryl said evasively. "Only she's not very pretty love. She doesn't… she doesn't much look like Elsie anymore."

"What if she doesn't wake up, Mrs. Patmore?" Becky asked.

Beryl took a deep breath, then frowned into her cup of tea. "Don't you fret, lass – it'll be you and me against the world, y'hear?" she finally said. "I'll not be abandoning my sister."

Becky was satisfied by this answer and smiled into her cuppa, sipping it delicately with all the refinement of a great lady. Beryl was surprised by her manners and her obvious deportment – Elsie had mentioned that she had been sent to boarding school in London from a very young age when it was discovered that she was incredibly intelligent and bound for far better things than the farm, but when signs of the mental instability had reared their head around age thirteen, she had been brought home and put to work in the fields same as Elsie. Obviously, the deportment and elocution lessons had stuck.

Much later, when they had returned Becky to Baker House and had checked in to the hotel and were headed to their rooms, Mrs. Crawley stopped Beryl and said, "You did very well today. I know how difficult this has been for you, but you have done very well."

Beryl teared up and pursed her lips together sadly. "You do what you've got to do for your family, Mrs. Crawley. You protect your own," she said only when she was certain she could speak without crying. And then she retreated into her room without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

IV:

* * *

It had not been a good day. Charles had spent most of it wishing he had been at the hospital rather than the Abbey; Barrow had been infuriating, Alfred had been testing his patience, and even the arrival of Mrs. Patmore had done nothing to assuage his grumpiness. In fact, if anything, it had made him more irritable to see the cook in such good spirits after her short time away. He hadn't had any time to speak to her or inquire about Miss Hughes, so there was yet another ball to juggle in the air.

He didn't know how many more things he could keep suspended before the world came crashing down around his shoulders; he really didn't.

He paused outside Elsie's room, surprised to hear a voice coming from within the room. "You were always the brave one of us, Elsie. Mam always said so – always made me feel so badly because you weren't home to help because I was worthless to her and you were so much help. You were so brave because you left and made your way in the big wide world." The voice changed, became softer, but slightly mocking. "'You know your sister isn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed, but she can make a bed with tighter corners than anyone I know. Elsie May isn't the prettiest lass, but she's got strong hands and a good heart and she'll last a long time in the world with those things, Becky Anne. Our Elsie lass is a good lass – she may climb everything in sight, but she's fearless and she'll stare down the Lord God Himself if he tried to take one of us away.'" The voice trailed off into a sardonic laugh. "I don't mean to be cruel, but if Mammy could see you right now, she might smack you into next Tuesday, Elsie."

Charles swallowed hard, torn between wanting to rush into the room and confront the woman who was being so cruel to Elsie when she could not fight back, and between being too afraid to hurt the woman who was fully conscious of the hurt that had already been inflicted. In the end, he stayed silent and lingered in the corridor shamefully, no better than Barrow with his eavesdropping.

"I used to be jealous of you," the voice continued softly, the brogue thicker and warmer than Elsie's. "Because you got to get away and do things that I didn't. Because you didn't have to listen to Mam and her incessant nagging. If I didn't do everything just so it weren't good enough and lor', how Elsie would've done it so much better." There was a heavy sigh. "But you're my little sister. And you helped me – I love you. Of course I love you. Ever since we were old enough to know what it meant to love each other, I've loved you."

There was a long silence, then a quick inhalation of breath.

"Do you remember when the roof half came off the barn in that storm?" she said, her voice rising a little bit. "You couldn't have been more than… fourteen? Fifteen? I think it was right before I turned sixteen, because Da couldn't afford to buy me a gift that year because the harvest was bad and we hadn't got anything. We were going to starve because the roof was leaking on the barn and the grain was rotting and… and you got up there in your petticoats and pantalettes and shift and a pair of Da's old bracers and your corset and said if all the men in Argyll were too cowardly to fix a barn roof, you'd do it yourself, and by God, a little slip of a girl put the roof back on our barn. You got your bum blistered by Mam after, but I've never been so proud of you. My strong baby sister, fearless and strong."

Another long silence.

"Oh, Elsie… Won't you please open your eyes and look at me?"

The tears and anguish in her voice were Carson's ultimate undoing. He knocked on the door and cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said softly, "I don't mean to bother, but it's time for Mrs. Hughes's feeding."

The woman jumped up from Elsie's bedside awkwardly, grabbing her coat and handbag, dropping both things repeatedly as one of her hands never ceased to be in furious motion. "I'm sorry – so sorry," she stammered.

"Don't apologize, you've done nothing wrong," Carson said gently. "You must be Miss Hughes. I am Charles Carson. Your sister –"

"Has told me all about you," she assured him with a small smile. "Except she did not say that you were… quite so tall."

He smiled wanly. "I wish she had told me about you," Carson said, his voice low and soft. "I would liked to have met you before now."

"She's always been very protective of me," Becky said, looking over her shoulder at Elsie as she lay in her bed without movement. "Ever since I came home from school, she's made it her mission to watch out for me. She means well, I know, but…" The woman bit her lip in a gesture that reminded him so strongly of her sister that it almost made him weep. "Have you ever wished, Mr. Carson, that you could be free? Really, truly free? From everything – that you didnae have to work or think of the family you serve or… or get up in the morning or go to bed when the sun went down or you could eat chocolate cake for breakfast or – or fall in love?"

He hesitated for a moment, tried to put himself into her place. She had been coddled and prodded and passed around, treated like a commodity, with Elsie the only person who actually cared enough to really see to her welfare, but never really understanding what lay beneath the fragile, cracked exterior.

"Miss Hughes," Carson said gruffly, attempting to restrain his emotions, "I will never know freedom again until your sister opens her eyes."

Becky looked at him, startled. "Oh," she gasped softly. "But she never – she never said –"

"She didn't know. Before… before it happened. I am ashamed that I did not tell her."

"Why didn't you?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Oh, never you mind, miss," he said softly. "It's time for you to go home with Mrs. Crawley for the night and get some rest. You'll never do our girl and good at all if you're tired."

"But you'll be with her?" Becky prompted hopefully.

He nodded. "I shall be with her," Carson agreed. "Go rest, Miss Becky."

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she murmured, stifling a yawn. "I'm really very… ve-" The word died in her throat as her eyes rolled back in her head and her body went rigid. She fell to the floor, convulsing.

"Mrs. Crawley!" Carson shouted. "Nurse Hanley! Miss Hughes is –"

Mrs. Crawley was in the room very quickly, pulling Becky onto her side and making sure she was able to breathe, but otherwise not restricting her bucking movements or interfering. "It is a seizure, Mr. Carson – she has them several times per week," Mrs. Crawley explained crisply. "There we are, Becky, that's a lass – that's a girl… almost over, lass," she murmured. "She's overtired. We should have gone home ages ago."

"She was trying to tell me she was tired," Carson said very quietly, horrified that he had seemingly been the cause of the seizure. "I can't – will she be –"

Becky went limp and began to breathe normally again, leaning into Mrs. Crawley's embrace with disoriented exhaustion. "So sleepy," she mumbled.

"I know, love, I know," Mrs. Crawley murmured. "Carson, will you please help carry her to Crawley House? I wouldn't ask if I didn't have to. I know it's past time to feed Elsie, but –"

He didn't mean to sound cruel toward Elsie, so he would never speak the words aloud, but she could wait a few minutes longer for the enforced cruelty of having a tube shoved down her throat and gruel poured into her stomach. If he had his way, she would never have to face it again. But she was being bloody stubborn.

"Of course," he said.

It didn't take very long to get Becky to Crawley House and situated in the guest room with help from Mrs. Byrd. Then he was back in the hospital, taking in the scene before him. "Nurse Hanley?" he called.

"Mr. Carson?"

"Have you seen to Mrs. Hughes since I left?"

"No one has been in here since you left."

He hesitated, then licked his lips and said, "She moved. Her hand moved."

"Mr. Carson, it must have been on her stomach and slipped," Nurse Hanley said kindly. "She hasn't really moved on her own. I'm sorry. I wish she had; it would be so nice if she had."

Carson closed his eyes and stifled a cry. "Oh, god, I wish… I wish she had," he rasped.

"We all do," Nurse Hanley murmured. "I'm so sorry."

"We… we need to feed her," he muttered, focusing on the here and now again; routine, structure, control what could be controlled. "I'm sorry – I shouldn't have been so eager to jump to the conclusion that she was regaining consciousness just because gravity came to call."

"Mr. Carson, we must live in hope," Nurse Hanley said. "Or else we will always live in a shadow of darkness."

His smile wasn't exactly heartfelt.

* * *

The weeks became months. Life didn't just end because Mrs. Hughes was in hospital, though Carson sometimes wished that it had. Anna had taken over her housekeeper duties and was keeping the house running smoothly, but it wasn't the same. He still caught himself expecting to run into her in the corridors and had to stop himself short.

When Lady Sybil had died, it had very nearly broken him. He knew if Elsie woke and found her gone, it would probably send her straight back into her oblivion again. The stress of mourning and grieving both the young woman he had considered to be almost a niece and the woman he considered practically a wife was taking a heavy toll on him.

He and Beryl had decided to split the costs of Becky's care – after much shouting and cajoling and outright bickering, fighting, and dirty blackmailing. Becky, for her part, was just happy to be able to come to Downton and see Elsie once a month for two days, and see Charles and Beryl, who she considered to be just as much her family as her sister was.

And it was so that a year had passed since Elsie Hughes had taken her unfortunate tumble down the stairs.

Dr. Clarkson waited for Carson to arrive for the evening; that was how Carson knew something was wrong. "She is showing no signs of improvement," the doctor said. "It has been a year. We need to consider the very real probability that she will not awaken and that the merciful option may be an overdose of morphine."

Charles rounded on him. "How can you – how can you stand there and ask me to make that decision, Dr. Clarkson? How can you look me in the eye and ask me to choose to end her life because it is less painfully inconvenient for us to do so?"

"Carson, no one who has seen you with Mrs. Hughes in the last year questions your devotion or your commitment of affection toward her," Dr. Clarkson assured him. "And, as such, you are the only person in this world that is qualified to make this decision. I am not – I need you – you must think about – Carson, you must think about her soul. What must she feel like, trapped in this body, between worlds?"

"You cannot ask me to do _that_."

Dr. Clarkson sighed in frustration. "Yes, well… I'd thought that maybe because you loved her so very much, you wouldn't want to be selfish – and you'd let her go."

"You thought wrong." Carson's voice was hard, steely. "Good night, doctor." When he was certain Clarkson was gone, he settled in at Elsie's bedside and clutched her hand in his, pressing it to his lips. "I love you," he whispered. "I do. I love you, Elsie Hughes. And if that makes me selfish, so be it. I am not letting you go, damn it."

He thought he'd imagined it; her finger twitched. But then another finger moved, and he found himself kissing both fingers ever so gently, trying to reconcile what he was seeing with his own eyes. Then he glanced up at her face, and her eyes were open just a tiny slit, peering out at him.

"I've such a headache," Elsie Hughes rasped, the first words she had spoken in a full year.

And he had never heard sweeter words.


	5. Chapter 5

V:

* * *

After the hubbub of the nurses and Dr. Clarkson had died down, Carson pulled the chair back up to her bedside and settled in for the night. He felt suddenly awkward about undressing in the room now that Elsie was conscious, and it would be beyond inappropriate to continue the behavior that he had persisted in over the months of her convalescence by indulging himself in resting in a bed in the same room. But to sit beside her as she rested would do no harm.

And yes, he knew just how bloody ridiculous and properly pompous it sounded – even to himself. But he would do nothing to tarnish her reputation with improper behaviors. Not after what she had been through.

"Shouldn't you be getting back to the Abbey?" she whispered.

"Mr. Barrow will already have locked up behind me," Carson said. "I'll be back in time for breakfast, and with such good news. How are you feeling?"

"Dreadful." She blinked up at him. "I am so very tired – even moving exhausts me."

"It was a very bad injury," he explained.

"No one has told me what happened."

"Dr. Clarkson –"

"Sod Dr. Clarkson."

"Mrs. Hughes, in order to recover, you will need to rest and not overtax yourself," he explained gently and with as much compassion as he could. "You needn't worry about what has happened in the meanwhile – at least for the time being. Right now, you need only to worry about building up your strength."

She huffed a breath of annoyance, then muttered, "Why are you here?"

He hesitated for a long moment, weighing his options before deciding that he had said the words so many times to her that they were like breathing to him; if she did not believe him, it was her own fault. "Because I love you."

She stared at him for a long time, confused. "Mr. Carson, I –"

"It is part of what has happened in the meanwhile, Mrs. Hughes," he said very softly. "But I will not be leaving your bedside tonight; close your eyes and rest. I'll turn off the lamps and make sure the nurses don't disturb you too much when they do their checks."

"The last thing I remember before I woke up, you and I were talking about flowers for Lady Mary's wedding and drinking the last of a bottle of… shiraz? From… one of the Antipodes?" she said, her brow furrowing in confusion. "His Lordship wasn't pleased with the wine, but you loved it and were talking about getting more for yourself –"

"Shiraz from New Zealand," Carson said, nodding. "That was the night before your accident. I didn't buy more, by the way – I invested my money far more wisely." He looked at her pointedly.

She licked her lips and murmured, "I'm so tired, Mr. Carson, but… I'm scared that if I close my eyes, I won't wake up. Why am I scared of that?" Her eyes searched his face in something akin to panic, and he tried to steady his breathing and remain calm.

"Mrs. Hughes, I promise, I won't let anything happen to you," he said softly. "I haven't yet."

"Tell me what happened, please."

"You know I can't."

"You won't."

"I will not because I cannot."

"Oh, you… you stubborn old –"

"Close your eyes and rest," he soothed. "Everything will be made clear tomorrow," he promised, holding her hand and caressing it as he had for months on end. "Do you want me to read to you? I was just about to begin _Emma_."

"Would you?" she murmured, leaning back into her pillows and beginning to settle even as he reached for the book.

It wasn't very long before she was sound asleep from sheer exhaustion and he was back to contemplating how on earth he was going to explain how Elsie was missing an entire year of her life. Pragmatic Scot that she was, maybe he'd just have to be blunt and throw it out there in plain terms for her to digest.

He didn't know; he crossed his arms over his chest and slouched in the chair uncomfortably, seeking a bit of a doze.

* * *

Beryl looked up from the tray she was assembling to see Charles Carson standing in the doorway of the kitchen, hat in his hands, an unreadable expression on his face. "Oh… oh, god… Charles – did she –"

"She regained consciousness around ten-thirty last night," he rumbled softly. "Dr. Clarkson did some preliminary tests last night and forbade me to tell her what happened and how long she's been unconscious. When I left the hospital a quarter of an hour ago, he was going to be doing some physical tests and kicked me out to get breakfast and a change of clothes. I thought I would come collect you and leave a note for His Lordship."

"She's awake? She's – she's really awake?" Beryl's hands were shaking so hard she almost dropped the bowl and charger she was trying to hold.

"She is really awake," he assured her. "But she doesn't remember anything about the accident."

"Well, you didn't really think she would, did you?"

"To be honest, I don't know what I thought would happen," he confessed wearily. "I just wanted her to wake up and be all right. Now that she is awake, I need to formulate a better plan."

She smiled over at him. "Your better plan should start with a fresh shirt and some cologne – she'll know if you've not polished your teeth and put fresh pomade in your hair," Beryl teased. "Go get ready and I'll help Daisy finish the breakfast trays, and we can go."

"Go where?" Daisy said, coming into the kitchen from laying tea for the servants' breakfast. "Hullo, Mr. Carson – when did you get here? How's Mrs. Hughes?"

"She's well enough, you dozy girl, now get on," Beryl barked. "We've got to finish the upstairs breakfasts."

About forty minutes later, Beryl was pulling on her gloves and hat, and they were setting off across the gravel roadway. "Now, be honest, Charles – how is she, really?" she said.

"She is Mrs. Hughes."

"Well, that isn't at all helpful."

"I don't understand the meaning of your question – she is… being herself. She is Mrs. Hughes. She is, in her turn, stubborn, willful, charming, frustrating, calculating, and witty. She doesn't understand what is happening, so she is attempting to use her full arsenal of persuasion to get details of her accident, and I am refusing to comply. So we are at an impasse. She is Mrs. Hughes."

Beryl rolled her eyes. "Hmmph."

"She threw me out at four this morning when the nurse came to change her nappy," he said with a sigh. "As if I haven't changed more than my fair share of them in the last few months, though I would never dare tell her so."

"I should certainly hope not!" Beryl yelped. "Charles Carson, are you telling me you've seen – you've seen all of her – front and back bottom?"

"It wasn't like that," he sighed. "It wasn't lewd or improper at all – it was just to clean her and change the nappy and move on. What kind of a man do you take me for?"

"The best kind of a man – she doesn't deserve you, and if she doesn't see sense and take everything you're offering, I'll knock her upside the head with a frying pan and send her back into a coma," Beryl swore.

"Don't you dare; my nerves couldn't take it," Charles chuckled.

They lapsed into comfortable silence as they walked in the morning mist to the village. Once inside the hospital, they were greeted by Mrs. Crawley, who had such an expansive smile as either of them had ever seen. "What do you know – Mrs. Hughes woke up in the night!" she exclaimed.

"Yes," Carson said simply. "I've spoken to her, briefly."

"Oh, have you?" Mrs. Crawley said, her smile dimming slightly. "Well… Dr. Clarkson is in with her now, assessing her muscle tone and a few other things, and then you'll be able to go through."

"Are we still planning to leave on the 9:15 tomorrow to collect Miss Becky?" Beryl asked Mrs. Crawley. "You hadn't forgotten with all the excitement had you? You don't think we should send her a telegram and tell her, do you, Charles?"

"I think we should surprise her," Carson said. "She needs a happy surprise."

"We all needed a happy surprise," Mrs. Crawley said. "What with poor Sybil and –"

"You cannot say a word about Lady Sybil," Carson interrupted. "Not in front of Mrs. Hughes. You cannot. She will be heartbroken – you must leave that to me, in my own time."

"Oh, Mr. La-de-dah… you'd better do it before we get here with Becky, or she'll do it for you," Beryl pointed out. "She was awfully fond of her, too, you know."

"She only met her twice," Carson huffed.

"But she was fond of her," Beryl countered. "You stop being a ninny, Charles Carson."

Dr. Clarkson emerged from Mrs. Hughes's room and said, "I suppose you'll all be wanting to go in and wear out our patient? She's already agitated, hearing you loud as thunder out here in the corridors."

"You should go in first," Carson invited, beckoning Beryl toward the door. "But remember –"

"I know, I know, I can't talk about the accident or anything that's happened since."

"And if she seems at all tired, you need to let her rest," Clarkson warned.

"Fine," Beryl said, heading into the room. "Now, I hear that someone is finally awake, but I don't believe it," she said, sitting down at Elsie's bedside, smiling tearfully as she took in her friend's frail form. Somehow, she looked even more fragile when fully conscious than in a comatose state, and it was alarming. "My goodness, you look like you've been dropped off a cliff!"

"I feel like I've been dropped down a flight of stairs," Elsie joked wanly.

Beryl flinched. "Yes, well… nothing a good bowl of chicken soup won't cure – I'll get Daisy to make some and Mr. Carson can bring it down to you tomorrow," she said softly. "I'm sure Dr. Clarkson won't mind – he'll be wanting to get some nutritious food into you, lass. And we'll sneak some shortbread in, too."

Elsie's smile was small. "I'm really not hungry," she said.

"Nonsense – you need to eat to get your strength back."

"Strength? What strength? I can barely lift my hand by myself – let alone attempt to walk. How can I go back to work and be a housekeeper if I cannae keep house?" Elsie shot back with a depressed weariness. "I don't even know what happened to me, Beryl."

"You had an accident, love."

"Yes, I know that. I had a terrible accident, but that doesn't explain why everyone is wrapping me in cotton wool and why I feel like I've been through the Great War and why you look like you've aged so much and why Mr. Carson has so many more grey hairs than he did only a few days ago –"

"You aren't making this easy," Beryl scolded.

"I'm confused!"

"You're bloody obstinate like a mule, you are!"

"Tell me what I want to know and I'll –"

"Oh, no, don't you play games with me, Elsie Hughes, I'll not be tellin' you that you knocked your noggin' and scrambled those fine brains of yours," Beryl scolded.

Elsie raised an eyebrow. "How did I hit my head, Mrs. Patmore, and exactly how long was I unconscious?"

"Oh bloody Nora," Beryl muttered. "They're going to kill me. They're going to bleeding kill me."

Elsie's lips pursed together, then she called out, "Mr. Carson, will you please come in here for a moment?"

Carson came in, a small smile on his lips. "Good morning, Mrs. Hughes –"

"How long was I unconscious, Mr. Carson?" Elsie inquired.

His smile vanished and he stared accusingly at Beryl, who started to get flustered. When it became obvious that she was getting upset and Elsie was losing patience, he finally said, "Three hundred sixty five days, some hours, and some minutes – we aren't sure how many hours and minutes because we don't know when you fell exactly."

"A year. I was… unconscious for a year." Elsie turned away from them, attempting to hide her emotions. "Everything makes more sense now. So much more sense now."

"Elsie –"

"Get out," Elsie whispered. "Both of you. Get out. Please."

"You don't mean that," Beryl said. "Not Charles –"

"I need to be alone," Elsie said very quietly.

"Well… fine, I'll just… I'll go back to the Abbey and make you soup," Beryl said, pouting, not understanding why Elsie was being the way she was. "And I'll get someone to walk it up later."

"I will be in the corridor, should you need me," Carson said softly, reaching over to gently touch Elsie's hand. She tried to shy away from him, but he refused to let her – _and good on him_, Beryl thought.

In the corridor, Beryl scowled at him, then said, "She tricked me, and I swear –"

"Beryl, it was bound to happen one way or another," he said with a heavy sigh. "If she doesn't want to see you again today, I'll see you when you return. And make sure our friend doesn't get the surprise before she arrives."

Beryl watched him sit down in the corridor looking as awkward and sad as he'd ever been through the entire last year – nappy changing and sponge baths and hospital cots and tube feedings and IV fluids and unsavory things included. And she wondered why things had to be so difficult for them all now.

* * *

"Mr. Carson, she's asking for you," Mr. Crawley said with a sympathetic smile. "She's very tired, though, so you should keep it short – shouldn't you be getting back to the Abbey?"

"I informed His Lordship by note that I would be unavailable today, and why," Carson said with a tight, worried smile. "We have spoken many times about what would occur, should this eventuality become reality."

"I am very pleased for you that it has," Mrs. Crawley said. "The alternative –"

"The alternative is not one I would like to discuss," Carson said. "If you'll excuse me, please, Mrs. Crawley, Mrs. Hughes is waiting, and I shouldn't like to tire her out any more than I have to."

She was waiting for him, propped up on a mound of pillows, looking a little bit better than she had earlier in the day. Some broth and water biscuits from the hospital canteen and one of the nurses seeing to her hair had done wonders and brought a bit of color and life into her cheeks. He had been sitting in the corridor like a misery guts, aside from when one of the shift nurses had taken pity on him and brought him a sandwich and a bottle of lemonade from the canteen with a wink and a blown kiss.

"Mr. Carson," Elsie greeted, smiling a little.

"Mrs. Hughes," he acknowledged warily, sitting down at her bedside, afraid she was going to outright reject him again.

"I am sorry." She made the herculean effort to reach across the bed toward him. "I was rude, petulant, and not very kind."

"You needed time," he said, reaching over to take her hand in his own, holding it gently.

"Mr. Carson, I have nothing but time." Her words echoed with pained sadness. "I'll not be leaving this bed for quite some time yet. Maybe not ever under my own power."

"I can't believe that things are that bad," he said gently.

"They are every bit that bad," she replied, her smile disappearing. "But I'll not bore you with my woes. Mrs. Crawley was telling me that you've been very good to me since I've been ill. And I thank you so much, Mr. Carson." She paused, worrying her lip between her teeth. "That's why you stayed last night, isn't it? Because the cot over there is where you sleep at night; you stay the night with me so I'm not alone, even though I was unconscious."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I already told you why."

"You say those words so easily, like they mean nothing –"

"They mean everything to me, Elsie," he said in earnest, clasping her hand tighter in his. "I have spent every day for the last year making peace with myself, with god, with you – saying that I love you, saying that if you would only open your eyes, I would be happy… I would give anything for you to come back to me. And here you are. You're awake. And I love you. And I am so happy right now. But it hurts me because you don't care for me the same way that I care for you – and you never will, because you haven't lived through the same experiences that I have. But that doesn't matter, Elsie Hughes, because you are going to be just fine." He reached up and stroked her cheek, curled his fingers into her hair, smiled tearfully. "You'll be just fine, my dearest darling lass."

She turned her face into his palm, her tears wetting his hand. "The last thing in the world I want to do is hurt you," she whispered. "I am so sorry –"

"No, no, please don't cry," he said. "It's not worth weeping over, Elsie."

"You've not called me Elsie since I was head housemaid," she reminded him gently, sniffling a little.

He smiled and lifted her hand to his lips for a kiss. "I've called you Elsie for a year," Carson said softly. "You just haven't heard me."

"I hear you now," she murmured. "And it's lovely." She yawned then, a weary, long yawn that left her slumping with exhaustion.

"Come now," he soothed. "You need your rest, Elsie love," Carson prompted gently, helping slide her down into bed. "And I'll have you know… you didn't need to kick me out this morning when your nappy needed changing. I'm just as versed as a night nurse, and probably more efficient."

She blushed. "You don't need to see my –"

"Elsie, until you can use a chamber pot under your own steam, someone has to help you, and it might as well be me," he pointed out. "I am stronger than the women on the ward, so I can lift you more easily, and I care about you, so I am likely to be kinder in your treatment."

She huffed. "Oh… fine."

"Does that mean that I may resume sleeping in my cot over there for the next few evenings, until I reestablish a nighttime routine with Mr. Barrow?" Carson inquired.

"Charles, if you leave me alone in this place, I will scream until you come back," she whispered, reaching for his hand, threading her fingers with his.


	6. Chapter 6

VI:

* * *

He had, of course, had to go back to the big house; it was the way of things, she knew, and she should not be selfish and pitiful even though she was very pitiful indeed. He must work in order to earn his pay. The Earl of Grantham was a good employer, but even he had his limits when it came to indulging staff; Elsie knew that her accident had rendered her employment tenuous at best and terminable at worst. In fact, she was just waiting for a visit from the big house to tell her that she was being sacked in favor of Anna, who had been a very capable replacement in the meanwhile.

Elsie had been alone with her thoughts for too long; she was troubled by far too many things. The length of time she had spent unconscious had called into question any number of things. Had Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew married? Had Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson's child been born? Had the situation with Mr. Bates been resolved yet? So many questions and yet no answers.

So she focused instead on what she felt she could answer.

Charles Carson had all but declared an intention to her. And at their ages! In their professions! It was unheard of – what on earth would… what would Lord Grantham say? Would he be kind and allow them to indulge in a level of familiarity or – _dare she say_ it – courting? Or would they be chastised for any kind of outward show of devotion such as Mr. Carson had already shown her by holding her hand and kissing her fingers?

She had never told anyone that the reason she had turned Joe Burns down a second time was because she dreamed of a moment when the butler of Downton would realize that there was more to life than polishing another man's silver and would instead put a band of silver on her finger, leading her into a cottage garden that was their own little piece of heaven on earth. But it had only been a dream, and reality was harsh. Becky's care costs had been going up steadily since her stroke, since medicines had advanced and new doctors wanted to reevaluate and subject her to new crackpot testing that they couldn't afford. Electrical therapies that would bankrupt Elsie and possibly destroy Becky's brain. Lobotomies that would end the tics but at what cost? She was already penniless; what more could she give?

With great horror, it dawned on her that she had no idea who had been underwriting her sister's care during her hospital stay. In fact, she had no earthly idea who could have been paying for her own care – a year in hospital was no small bill.

The anxiety that such thoughts brought with them became like a living thing within her; it crawled up from her stomach and lodged itself in her throat, carrying with it tears and a bubbling kind of hysteria that could have been nausea if she'd thought harder about it. Instead, she was sobbing, big nasty ugly sobs that made her feel diminished like a wee little girl again, who couldn't control herself. A weak, cowardly thing who could not keep a handle on herself and her emotions.

"Let it out, let it out," one of the nurses encouraged gently, coming in and embracing her. "It's going to be all right, Mrs. Hughes, I promise."

"You don't know that," Elsie wailed miserably.

"You're stronger than you think," the nurse pointed out with a smile.

"Why do you say that?"

"You woke up, didn't you?"

Elsie sighed. "I'm beginning to think that was an error on my part," she commented.

"Oh, none of that, now," the nurse said with a frown. "I was coming in to tell you that you've got a visitor, but you were crying so much…"

"Who would want to see me?" Elsie mumbled.

"Lady Grantham."

_Well, that's it – I'm getting the sack._

"There isn't much I can do to make myself presentable," Elsie said, lamenting the way she looked, even though she'd been forbidden lovingly by Carson to look in the mirror. He said it was because he knew she wasn't vain but she was proud, and she would be heartbroken to see herself such as she was.

"Let me help you to sit up and we'll tuck you up in a shawl," the nurse said kindly. "And I'll help with your hair. Don't worry – you'll be up and doing for yourself soon. After your visit, I'll bring by some soup and bread, all right? Dr. Clarkson says some nice simple brown bread and chicken broth will help more than anything else right now."

"I doubt you'll be saying that in a few hours," Elsie said pointedly, raising an eyebrow as the nurse wrapped her up in a shawl.

The nurse laughed and said, "Oh, don't you worry about that – perfectly normal day 'round here. I'll go fetch Her Ladyship and you just ring your bell if you need me."

Elsie fidgeted, picking at loose threads in her blanket, tired of waiting for the inevitable. She looked up to see the Countess of Grantham hovering in the doorway, biting her lip and looking very worried indeed. "Mrs. Hughes?"

"Come in, m'lady," Elsie invited with what she hoped passed for something vaguely like enthusiasm. "I've not got the strength to bite."

"I told Carson I was coming and he said to make sure you'd eaten something," Lady Grantham said, settling in beside her awkwardly. "Have you? Eaten anything, I mean?"

"They'll bring me soup and bread a little later," Elsie said. She held back – just barely – from biting her lip in worry. "M'lady…"

"Mrs. Hughes, I want to apologize."

Elsie blinked at her. "I don't understand. For what, my lady?"

"I sent you up to the storage attics," Lady Grantham said softly. "It's partially my fault that you fell – you should never have been up there alone. I should have sent someone else up with you."

"No… no, it's… believe me, it's not the first time I've had the wits knocked out of my head," Elsie said, shaking her head and smiling ruefully. "Mam says I fell out of a tree when I was only five or so and was out for a sennight."

"Surely you didn't."

"I did," Elsie said, nodding. "I remember what happened right before. Becky was gone to London to school and we had these cats, and I followed hers – Tabby – up the tree. The branch broke under me and I went down, landed head-first." She smiled wanly. "Da made a coffin an' ever'thin'. I weren't meant to see it, I don't think, and he pulled it apart and used it for firewood."

"That's… morbidly awful."

"That's farm life," Elsie said, shrugging. "There wasn't a coffin when Da died. One of the hired men felled the old ash tree and made one. It was the last tree on the plot of land." She took a deep breath. "Would've been right before I left to go to Inveraray to work."

"A long time ago, then," Lady Grantham said softly.

"Aye, a long time," Elsie agreed. "I've been in service since I was sixteen," she said softly. "Since Da died and I was forced to go because I was the one who could earn a living." Her smile was wan. "M'lady, if you want to… to tell me that my employment is…"

"Mrs. Hughes, I would never!" Lady Grantham exclaimed, aghast. "You are not to worry about a thing until you are completely recovered. Not a thing, do you understand?"

"But the expense –"

"Has been taken care of," Lady Grantham assured her gently, patting her hand. "Mr. Matthew came into some money that has been our saving grace, and he has been paying your bill directly to Dr. Clarkson as part of the estate funding of the hospital."

Elsie felt the tears begin anew. "M'lady, I cannot –"

"Mrs. Hughes, you have served our family very well for many years, and we would be the worst kind of employers if we cut ties and did not take at least part of the blame on our shoulders," Lady Grantham said softly. "In my case, I blame myself completely. If I'd never sent you up there in the first place…"

"Maybe, m'lady," Elsie began hesitantly, "this is God's way of telling me that I am… not as young as I thought I might be and that I should begin to think about slowing down before He slows me down completely." She paused, biting her lip. "If I could retire, I would, but I cannot. I have financial obligations that, to be honest, I do not know… if or how they are being met right now, as I have been unconscious for a year."

"Your sister," Lady Grantham said.

Elsie blinked. "M'lady?"

"In spite of what everyone seems to think, just because I am American, I am not unnaturally stupid," Lady Grantham said, rolling her eyes and sighing. "I've known about her for about fifteen years. I convinced Robert to get the estate to hire her on to do some survey calculations when they did the remapping of the village and the estate for the county planning boards." She smirked. "Don't look so surprised – where do you think her allowance came from? She gets a small annuity."

"Oh my word," Elsie breathed.

"Now, of course, that means nothing when the estate hasn't been paying for her medical care," Lady Grantham warned. "Mr. Carson and Mrs. Patmore were very much against us even offering to extend a portion of the cost of –"

Elsie's eyes filled with tears. "Oh, that stupid, selfless man," she exhaled on a sniffling sob. "That's what he meant by 'investing his money'."

"Mrs. Hughes?"

"Something Mr. Carson said last night," Elsie murmured, reaching up to wipe her eyes. "I didn't realize he'd meant he was caring for my sister. I knew Mrs. Patmore would be doing it because I'd asked her to if anything ever happened to me, but… I never told him about our Becky."

"He isn't exactly a stupid man, either," Lady Grantham pointed out, smiling a little. "And he's spent almost every night since your accident here in hospital with you. I'd like to think that my husband would be so devoted, but somehow, I don't think he would."

"Mr. Carson is very kind," Elsie murmured.

"Mr. Carson loves you very much, Mrs. Hughes." Lady Grantham's words were soft and earnest. "He is not at all himself without you." She reached over and patted Elsie's hand gently. "Now… I want you to rest and feel better. Take all the time you need. The house isn't going anywhere. We're not going anywhere. And if you need anything – anything at all – you just have someone call up to the Abbey and speak to Anna and I'll make sure it's sent down immediately."

"That really isn't necessary –"

"Yes, it is," Lady Grantham said firmly. "It is, Mrs. Hughes. Ever since Sybil – since Sybil –"

Elsie felt that dread feeling of panic begin to well up within her again. "My lady," she said softly, "what happened? What happened to Lady Sybil?" A year was such a long time – so many things could have gone wrong. _She was with child – oh, god, so many things could have gone wrong –_

"She… she died," Lady Grantham forced out, turning away for a moment to regain her composure. "In childbirth. She died, Mrs. Hughes."

Every emotion Elsie knew she should feel at such painful, shocking news ran through her at a horrifying clip, leaving her painfully, overwhelmingly numb. "I am so sorry," was all she could think to say.

"I am sorry to be the one to have to tell you," Lady Grantham said, her sadness clear, guilt etched into her features. Too much guilt; Elsie wondered if she was taking too much guilt onto her shoulders rather than to admit that there was nothing that she could have done in either case.

"Well… I am here to listen if you need to talk," Elsie invited. "And I am a captive audience – I could not get away if I tried," she joked lamely.

"Aren't you afraid that the men folk will object with all their silly rules?" Lady Grantham asked.

"I won't tell if you won't," Elsie said with a small smile. "We can do penance together."

"You don't have anything to do penance for," Lady Grantham said.

"Oh, but I do," Elsie said softly. "I do indeed." She didn't elaborate; better to keep Her Ladyship guessing. She might come back and keep her company more often.

* * *

Anna sat down beside Elsie's bed and sighed. "I don't know how you ran that house for so many years and didn't go mad," she confessed. "I'm at my wits' end."

Elsie smiled and said, "I had Mr. Carson's unconditional support."

"I've got that and I'm still going potty," Anna grumbled.

"Thomas and O'Brien are probably stirring the pot," Elsie warned. "You'll want to nip that in the bud. And don't let Mrs. Patmore have the key to the store cupboard."

"I've already gone toe-to-toe with her," Anna muttered. "She's learned I've got even more backbone than you've got. And more experience standing up to a wooden spoon."

"Anna, you're doing very well," Elsie assured her. "Lady Grantham doesn't seem to have any complaints, and even Mr. Carson has said that you're doing well. I trained you in case something happened to me. It's been a year. You're fine."

"I know, I just… I feel like they're judging me and finding me lacking because I'm not you," Anna admitted softly. "And I'm not you. I can never be you."

"But you're Anna Bates," Elsie reminded her. "And you're wonderful in your own right." She smiled.

"I've missed you," Anna murmured, leaning over to hug Elsie tight. "You've no idea. It's been so strange in that house without you."

"I can well imagine," Elsie said with a bitter laugh. "No one to question O'Brien's cheek?"

"Everyone's too cowardly to do it more like," Anna sighed. "And Mr. Carson… he's always somber, yes, but when you're not there, he's silent like the grave, Mrs. Hughes."

"Well, I'll have to work twice as hard, then, to get better," Elsie said firmly. "So I can come home." She closed her eyes and just held Anna, too tired to do much else.


	7. Chapter 7

VII:

* * *

It was later than normal when he got to the hospital with his overnight bag and the dog-eared old copy of _Gulliver's Travels_ that he'd promised to bring for her to read during the day. Carson was bone weary with exhaustion and his nerves were frayed; a small matter involving Lady Mary and arranging travel to Duneagle had turned into something far and away more challenging, and in the end, it had been settled that Lady Mary was, indeed, too far gone with child to be traveling at all. And Mr. Matthew would, of course, stay behind with her while the rest of the family went north to Scotland. Which opened another fine kettle of fish, seeing as how staff would be spare as it was, and Carson would be taking the chance to spend more time at the hospital – with Lord Grantham's blessing – to aid Mrs. Hughes's recovery. But he supposed everything would shake out in the end, however the dice fell.

He hadn't expected Mrs. Hughes to be awake, and thus, wasn't disappointed when he found her sleeping peacefully. There was a marked difference between the repose of sleep and the unconsciousness of her coma; in sleep, her eyes moved beneath her eyelids, and her lips twitched, as if she might begin to murmur words or laugh aloud at some joke she was dreaming. It gave him strength and reassured him that she would yet recover to know that she was only resting, and that she would eventually awaken. He sighed wearily and stepped behind the screen that someone had erected in the corner for him, changing into his basic cotton pajamas. They had seen better days, but he was unconcerned – they would suffice and bring him no shame if others were to see him besides Elsie. He slid his feet into his slippers and emerged back into the room to see her looking at him.

"Hello," she said softly. "It's late."

"Yes, and you should be asleep," he said, shrugging into his dressing gown.

"You woke me up with your muttering."

"I wasn't muttering."

She raised a brow and stifled a yawn. "Mmhmm," she murmured. "Well, either way, I'm awake now. I've had visitors today."

"Good," he said, settling in beside her and trying to hide his exhaustion for a little bit longer. "You deserve visitors every day until you're allowed to go home."

"Her Ladyship told me some interesting things," Elsie said softly, holding out her hand in invitation for him to hold it. He knew that they were permitted small shows of affection, nothing major, nothing intense, nothing like a real couple would display – _nothing like a husband would show to a wife_ – but that she was initiating one meant that she was trying to prove that she wasn't angry with him. "Were you ever going to tell me that you were helping Mrs. Patmore pay for my sister's care?" she inquired gently.

"I had been hoping to avoid that subject for a few more days," Carson admitted.

"Why?"

"Because I do not want you to feel guilty or obligated to me in any way."

"I think… that we are a little past that stage already," she said, her voice very soft, almost cracking under the strain of the words.

"You are my friend and the dearest light of my life," he said, taking her hand and holding it tightly in his own. "I care for you very deeply, Mrs. Hughes, but I will not pressure you to believe that your feelings are in tandem with my own for the sake of my vanity or of convenience. It would not be right, and I should never forgive myself if I forced you into something that you would later come to regret."

"You daft, sweet man," she sighed. "I wanted to thank you for being so kind. It's not many who would take on such a burden – I didn't want to, but she is my blood and I am responsible for her, come what may." Elsie bit her lip and murmured, "She's… she's so smart with numbers, but she cannae read hardly at all. And I'm the opposite. She had to teach me sums because I couldn't keep them straight and I kept havin' to do the tables as punishment on the big board."

He nodded, having already heard the same story from Becky, but confirmation from Elsie was nice. "I'm sorry that you felt –"

"She isnae really a mental incurable," Elsie said softly. "But they don't know what to call her disabilities."

"I know," he said gently. "As much medical progress as we've made since the turn of the century and we still cannot name her afflictions with any kind of certainty."

"No," she agreed, squeezing her hand. "But we can be kind and loving toward her; and compassionate and understanding. Because it is not her fault she is the way that she is." She sighed and said, "You sound very knowledgeable about my sister – should I be jealous?"

"She has had occasion to visit since you have been ill," he answered. "And she and I have conversed."

"She has flirted shamelessly with you," Elsie said sadly.

"She did not," he said firmly. "She knows that the only woman in the world that I should ever wish to marry is you."

Elsie blinked, then swallowed hard. "Mr. Carson… you cannot say such things," she said, her voice very low. "I might begin to believe them."

"It is the truth."

"It is flannelling flattery –"

"Elsie," he said, lowering his voice to barely more than a whisper, "it is nothing of the kind. I will not pressure you, and I will not bully you or make you feel beholden to me so you must agree to marry me because I have provided for your sister when you could not. I would have done that in your name until the day I died, or the day your Becky died, regardless, because I love you. Because I care and I was a fool – a damned stupid fool – for not telling you before now." He took a deep breath. "And I'll not be marrying anyone else."

"Is that your way of proposing marriage to me?" she asked, suddenly shy and a little wary, her fingers fidgeting against his palm.

"No, that would be such a clumsy way of –"

"I would be inclined to agree to marriage if it were on offer," she said in a rush, the words tripping over each other so quickly he almost couldn't discern them. "But if you aren't offering –"

He stopped, hesitated, opened his mouth, stopped again. "Elsie –"

"Charles, I have been unconscious in this bed for a year," she said, "and you still by some miracle harbor some kind of affection for me. I do not want to lose you, even if… if I am not to be housekeeper at the Abbey again. Or if I am not the same woman I was before the accident." She looked up at him and smiled shyly. "I love you, as well."

He smiled. "Elsie, I would be… happy, proud… intensely chuffed… if you would do me the great honor of –"

"Do you really want to be stuck with me?" she asked softly.

"There is no one on the face of this earth I would rather be stuck with," he said in earnest.

"Then yes, Charles, yes, I will marry you," Elsie Hughes whispered. "As soon as I can walk up the aisle under me own power. And… if I cannae, then… by god, someone is going to push me up the aisle in a wheelchair."

"May I kiss you?" Carson asked very gently, not willing to spook her.

"Of course," she agreed.

He pressed a chaste, gentle kiss to her lips; she had a different idea altogether of what a kiss between newly engaged folk should be and brought her hand up to cup the back of his head. Suddenly, the kiss became different, slightly more aggressive, less decent, less honorable, hungrier for something elusive between them. But she pulled back just before it escalated too far, looking a bit dazed.

"My goodness," she breathed. "I have never been kissed like that, Mr. Carson."

"Mrs. Hughes," he said, "if I kissed you in the manner I wished, we would require a special license."

Her cheeks flushed crimson and she stammered, "Get away with you."

He leaned in and kissed her again one more time; a proper good night kiss. Then he pulled away and retreated to his cot, turning off the electric light as he went. "Good night, my dearest darling," he said softly once he was tucked up in bed.

"Good night, my sweet daft man," Elsie replied, already halfway to sleep. She still didn't have much strength and he felt so guilty for taxing her in such large bursts of energy at once, but he didn't have much time to spend with her.

He lay awake for quite some time, making plans in his head – mostly about where they would live after they were married and how he would break the news to Lord Grantham in the morning. Maybe a dollop of whiskey in his tea to make him more reasonable?

When sleep came, he welcomed it.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII:

* * *

"We're going to start doing some exercises for your legs, to rebuild some of your muscle tone," Nurse Masters said with a gruff but caring smile on her lips. "It will be painful at first and you'll get very tired, but I need you to stick with it and stick with me and just keep trying, Mrs. Hughes."

"I am determined," Elsie said, her tone firm and unwavering. "I willnae give up, Mrs. Masters. No matter how hard it seems."

The nurse smiled and nodded. "Are you ready to begin?" She rolled the blankets back and freed Elsie's feet from the sheets and the tangle of her nightgown, pulling the fabric indecently up over her knees nearer to her hips than her thighs. "No one will come in – Nurse Ames is in the corridor standing guard for the next half hour while we work," she promised.

"Only half an hour?" Elsie joked lamely.

"We don't want to press you too much," Masters said gently. "It will set you back too far, Mrs. Hughes, and no one wants that. Least of all Mr. Carson," she added knowingly.

They worked together, moving Elsie's legs and chatting for a long time, until her legs were aching cruelly from the effort and she was dizzy from exhaustion. "And that's thirty minutes gone," Masters announced finally.

"Is that all?" Elsie whimpered.

"I warned you, dearie," Masters said softly. "You've been sedentary for a year – we've got our work cut out for us if you ever want to be able to walk 'round that big house again."

Elsie gritted her teeth and said, "I dinnae have a choice. I must go back to work as soon as I possibly can."

"You must recover first," Masters said firmly. "If your body cannot recover, you cannot go back to work. It is as simple as that."

"I'm so tired," Elsie complained, sighing as she was tucked back into bed.

"Yes, that will happen these first few days," Masters acknowledged. "It will get easier. We'll have you up and walking within a few weeks, I promise – but you must work hard, Mrs. Hughes. Now, you rest and I'll bring a snack as soon as you wake up. You'll be famished when you wake up."

"Mmm," Elsie mumbled, already half asleep.

She jerked awake to the feel of someone grabbing hold of her hand and saying, "I'm here, Elsie. I'm here now. Everything is going to be all right."

"Becky?" Elsie couldn't believe her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Becky's jaw dropped, her delicate features registering shock. "Elsie, you're awake? No one told me – they didn't – you're – when did you – oh my – I'm – oh, I'm so happy!" She laughed and cried at the same time, reaching down to scoop Elsie into a big hug that left her breathless. "How long have you been awake? Why did no one think to tell me?"

"We wanted to surprise you both," Mrs. Patmore said from the doorway. "Did it work?"

"Yes," Becky said, nearly in tears.

"Oh yes," Elsie whispered, reaching up to stroke her sister's hair lovingly. "How long are you here for?"

"Three days, then Mrs. Crawley will take me back to Blake House," Becky said. "Beryl can't take two more days off right now but Mrs. Crawley said she will take me back. We get on well, so it's not a bad thing, so don't worry too much, Elsie – you're getting those lines on your forehead when you're thinking really hard. Stop it."

"Mrs. Crawley isn't to everyone's taste," Elsie said diplomatically.

"We get on fine," Becky said, shrugging. "I'm just as stubborn as she is."

"There have been a few incidents, but no blood spilt," Mrs. Patmore said with a small smile. "How are you feeling today, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Tired," Elsie sighed. "We started some exercises for my legs earlier and I'm afraid it wore me quite out," she admitted. "I'm not at all doing very well at the moment."

"You're doing better than you think you are," Mrs. Patmore assured her. "Only a few days ago, Dr. Clarkson was telling us he was certain you wouldn't wake up and that we should prepare for the worst. But he'd been saying that for months, so goodness knows I'd stopped listening."

"I'm glad you woke up, Elsie," Becky said softly, clutching her hand tightly. "I've been worried about Charlie and what he'd do if you didn't wake up."

"Charlie?" Elsie asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you so cheeky as to refer to the estimable Mr. Charles Carson as Charlie?"

"He calls me Becky Lass and I call him Charlie," Becky said defensively, shrugging. "You've been asleep a long time, Elsie. Not everything is the same as you left it."

"I know," Elsie sighed. "And Mr. Carson probably would have mourned me properly when I died, then married you to care for you properly and treated you as a lady."

"Don't be daft."

"I'm not daft; he's a good man full of honor and pride," she tried to explain, but she ended up sighing. "Anyway, it doesn't matter much. I'm awake and I'll be right as rain soon. For the moment, though, I'm a wee bit weak and shan't be attempting to run races w'ye, Becky."

"I wasn't expecting that," Becky assured her. "To be fair, I was expecting you to still be under and I'd still be sitting here, trying to explain how to calculate the distance between galaxies –"

"Please don't; I'm already dizzy enough," Elsie teased. "Why don't you tell me what you've been up to while I've been ill? Tell me about all this time you've been spending with Mrs. Patmore, Mrs. Crawley, and Mr. Carson – I'm afraid for your safety with such disreputable guardians."

"Only when there's port involved," Becky said cheerfully.

"Oh dear," Elsie murmured. "Now I know there's been trouble."

"No, not trouble. Never trouble, and never anything improper or naughty," Becky assured her. "We just talked a bit more freely with a bit of port than we would have without it." She took a deep breath and looked at her sister with a bit of frank envy in her eyes. "He loves you very much, Elsie. I mean, we all do, but Charlie more than the rest of us combined. He'd do anything for you – you do know that, don't you?"

Elsie bit her lip and hesitated for a moment, then murmured, "Oh, don't be silly, dearest – tell me about your trip here. Did you have a good train journey?"

Becky frowned. "Elsie, stop changing the subject," she scolded, gripping Elsie's hand hard and forcing her to look at her. "He loves you and if you hurt him, if you… if you turn him away after everything he's done for you while you were ill –"

"Rebecca Hughes, don't tell me you've gone soft for him," Elsie said, her voice going very gravely as she realized she might just have to contend with someone else's attentions toward her fiance's affections.

"Even if I had," Becky said very quietly, releasing her death grip on Elsie's hand, "it doesn't matter. I wouldn't do that to you – and he would never look at me twice when you were in the room, Elsie. You're my sister; I can't lose you. Not over a boy. Not after everything else."

Elsie nodded and sighed. "Becky –"

"I should let you rest," Becky said. "You look very tired."

"I am, darling, but you don't have to go –"

"You won't rest if I'm here."

"Oh, fine," Elsie sighed. "Will you come back later?"

"How about I come back in the morning and I'll help you with your exercises?" Becky suggested. "It's already getting late – Mrs. Crawley will be wanting to settle in and have dinner soon."

"Dinner," Elsie echoed sadly. Her body still wasn't running properly yet, so she had no real signals for hunger beyond a few pangs in her stomach once in a very long while that meant that she was beyond ready for food, but she knew she was meant to be eating on a regular schedule – even if it was only broth and water biscuits.

"Are you hungry, pet?" Mrs. Patmore said from her perch in the doorway. "I can get you something."

"I'm not hungry," Elsie said quickly, maybe too quickly.

Mrs. Patmore's eyes narrowed. "Are you sure?" she said. "Have they been feeding you? Are you drinking all of your soup and eating all of your water biscuits and –"

"Yes, I'm just not hungry right now," Elsie said. "I'm not really very hungry at all," she admitted. "My body doesn't seem to be working correctly yet, so I'm afraid… I'm just not hungry. I'll eat what they give me, but I cannae force down more."

"I'll send some shortbread with Mr. Carson tonight," Mrs. Patmore said. "Anything to get some color back in your cheeks."

"I'm fine," Elsie protested.

"You're pale as the bloody moon."

Becky hesitated before she said, "Elsie, you really don't look very well."

"Well, you try being confined to bed for a year and you tell me how well you look at the end of it!" Elsie finally exploded. She was tired of being treated like nothing was wrong, like everything was fine if only you pretended it was. It wasn't; she wasn't all right. She was still confined to her sickbed, still wearing nappies because she didn't have the strength to lift herself from the mattress to use the bedpan, let alone attempt to walk to the loo, still not hungry, still fighting a dully throbbing headache in the base of her skull… The only person that treated her like she was herself was Charles, and he was at the Abbey, doing what he did best – serving.

What did it say that when he was done serving the family for the day, he came to the hospital and took delight in serving her? The guilt began to gnaw in her belly. What would he do when she was well again and he had no need to do things for her? When she could fetch and carry for herself? Would he even still want to be with her? Was their future happiness built on such a shifting foundation?

"Well… we'll let you rest," Becky said very quietly, gathering her coat and hat. "I'm sorry that I upset you, Elsie. I didn't mean to. Maybe… maybe tomorrow will be better."

As they left, Elsie heard Mrs. Patmore's voice trickling back, "It's okay, Becky, love – Dr. Clarkson said that sometimes people who have had head injuries can have… well… they're not quite themselves afterward. They're changed. I think, maybe… maybe Elsie's a little bit changed."

She wanted to run after them, screaming at the top of her lungs that she was the same Elsie, but she was scared, she was small and she was scared, and she was so alone and – and – and she couldn't even move or breathe, and all she could do was choke out a strangled sob as the world collapsed around her. Alone with her thoughts was not the best place for Elsie Hughes to be; it made her terrified and claustrophobic in a way she could not fight and she could not overcome.

* * *

He knew something was wrong when he walked into the hospital and was met by Dr. Clarkson, who looked more than slightly harried. "Mr. Carson, you might want to go back to the Abbey and stay there this evening," Clarkson warned through gritted teeth. "We're going to have to sedate Mrs. Hughes. She has been in a right snit ever since her sister left this afternoon and she's gotten herself worked up to a point –"

"Let me see her," Carson said.

"We're past that point now," Clarkson said. "She's not behaving rationally –"

"If you were three days out of a coma, would you behave rationally?" Carson shot back angrily. "She's not well, doctor, and you – of all people – should be able to see that. But you keep pushing her as if she is well, and she is not. Let me see her and get everyone out of the room. Leave some broth and bread by the door and I'll collect it when she's ready to eat."

"You seem very certain of your ability to calm the situation, Mr. Carson," Clarkson said with no small amount of scorn in his tone.

"I'm not the one pushing her past the limits of her sanity," Carson pointed out with barely concealed fury. "Just leave her alone for a while, that's all I'm asking – let her breathe. Let her calm down and be rational by herself, all right? Please? That's what I am asking, doctor. None of this is easy for any of us – and it is far more difficult for her than it is for us. We need to exercise compassion and care for her, not… dogma and blind following of rules. It won't work; we need a different tact."

"What good are rules if we do not follow them –"

"We might use them as a guideline, but she is… you already know she is stubborn and she will thwart your every attempt to do things properly," Carson reasoned. "So we need to work with her, not against her. Dr. Clarkson, please. Think about what I'm saying. Please. We can talk about this more tomorrow – but for now, let me calm her down. Get the nurses out of there, get everyone out of that room and let me close the door. I know it is against procedure and policy, but it is the only way to calm her down without sedating her. If you sedate her, you run the risk of sending her back into a coma. I've heard everything you've said and read all of the reports you've given me. I understand the risk well enough, and I am not willing to take it."

Clarkson huffed and threw his hands in the air. "Fine. On your own head be it – but if she is not calm in the next hour, we will be coming in to sedate her, consequences be damned."

Carson almost growled; he was that angry. How dare… how dare he? How dare the doctor really go that far to prove a point? He stalked down the corridor, pausing only long enough to make sure that the night nurses were getting out of his way before he entered Elsie's room and gestured – rather rudely – for the last nurses to get the hell out.

She was curled up in a tiny ball on the bed, and he knew then that something was terribly, awfully, horribly wrong. "Elsie," Carson said very softly, "are you all right, dearest?"

The noise she made was something caught between a strangled sob and a wailing moan, and it finally became a word. "No."

"Tell me whatever is the matter?" He wanted to go to her, to reach out to her, to touch her, but he was uncertain that the gesture would be welcomed. He might even do her more harm by offering the comfort than withholding it.

"I should just have died."

The words were like a slap. "What? No – what nonsense, love," he scoffed. "Who has put that vile thought in your head, my dearest Elsie?" He sat down beside her bed and gently reached out to touch her back. She flinched when he touched her, but he merely spread his fingers over her back gently, trying to reassure her that he was there.

"Everything would be better if I'd just died."

"That isn't true." His heart was breaking from hearing her say such things, but he couldn't stop her from experiencing the feelings that were cutting her apart at the seams.

"Isn't it? You could marry Becky and be happy. Beryl could keep her savings. None of you would have to deal with an invalid cripple who cannae even bloody feed hersel'."

"Despite what you may have heard, there is only room in my heart for one of the Hughes sisters," Carson said firmly. "I have asked for her hand and she has accepted me; and she is not 'an invalid cripple'. She is a woman who is weak after a prolonged state of illness and merely needs to regain her strength. Now, are you going to look at me or am I going to have to keep talking to the back of your head, Elsie May Hughes?"

"I don't have the energy to turn over," she murmured. "I'm so tired. I cannae even cry, I'm so weary."

"Have you eaten anything?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You have to eat, dearest," he insisted. "Even if you aren't hungry: your body won't heal if you don't eat. You'll never get stronger if you don't eat, love."

"I'm not hungry. I'm not going to get stronger. I'm not going to get better." Her voice cracked, broke, became that plaintive wail again. "No one tells you to your face that they think you're living in a dream and that I'm just going to be a crippled nightmare for the rest of my life – mad and horrible and in a bloody wheelchair and nappies and – and they're right. They're right. My body isn't right. It's never going to be right again."

"Elsie, stop it," Carson said very softly, stroking her back. "Please just stop. None of that is true. None of it. You cannot listen to anyone but me right now – they are going to tell you what you cannot do. And I am going to tell you everything you can do. Everything you must work toward. You've got to work harder than you've ever worked before."

"Why?" she whispered.

"Because I don't want to lose you. I don't want you to die. And if you listen to them, if you… if you stop trying, you will die, Elsie, bit by bit, you will die, until there's nothing left of you."

"You should have given up on me."

"Never," he whispered. "Never, Elsie." He took a deep breath, then said, "Are you calmer now, love?"

"I'm not mysel'," she said.

"I know," he agreed, still stroking her back.

"All the bad things run around in my head and they have nowhere to go," she mumbled, "and I'm alone most of the time, so I cannae talk to anyone and get them out. Everything is wrong and – and I cannae make it right."

"Shh," he murmured. "It will be all right. It will be all right, my dearest darling." When the tension began to leave her shoulders finally, he removed his hand from her back. "May I help turn you over? And go get your soup and bread from the corridor?"

"I'm really not hungry, Charles," she sighed tiredly as he helped her roll to her back.

"You need to eat or they'll bring the feeding tubes out again," he warned. "And they are infinitely worse on patients who are awake."

"Stop trying to be so kind to me," she begged, reaching over and grabbing his arm with surprising force. He looked up at her, deep into her eyes with alarm. "Charles, please. I… release you from our understanding. You don't want to be stuck with me. Not now." Tears welled up in her eyes, began to spill over, but she still said, "I want you to go. And I don't want you to come back."

It hurt him, knowing that she wanted him gone, but that it was breaking her to even say the words. "Do you really want that, dearest?" Carson asked gently.

"No," she breathed, reaching up to touch his face where an errant tear had escaped his lashes, winding its way down his cheek. "No."

"Why don't I go get your dinner and we'll forget that we ended our engagement?" he said, his voice low and gruff. "And we can talk more tomorrow after we've both rested."

"The doctor –"

"If you behave, he won't sedate you," Carson promised. "I won't allow him to."

She hesitated, then nodded and said, "Will you help me with my food?"

"Of course, love," he said softly. "You don't even need to ask."

"I'm scared, Charles."

"So am I," he agreed.

"Why?"

He got up and retrieved the food from the corridor, then came back with the tray. The soup was lukewarm and the water biscuits were stale looking, as usual, but at least it was food. "Because this piss poor excuse for food is all that stands between me and losing you," he said in a glum tone. "And you don't want to eat it."

"I'm sorry I'm a burden to you," she whispered.

"You are not a burden," he said firmly, offering her a sip of broth. "You are anything but a burden, Elsie. I am ashamed that it took an accident to make me see how much I care for you, but I am not going to allow you to feel that you are anything but loved and adored."

She closed her eyes and sighed. "I'm old and tired."

"Elsie, it's only been a few days – you need to be patient. You will heal," he promised. "You just need to give it time." He continued to feed her until all the broth was gone and most of the biscuits were gone as well. "Good," he praised softly. "Now, let's change your nappy and get you ready for bed." He did just that, quickly, quietly, without fuss, and tucked her back into bed, pressing a lingering kiss to her lips. "Elsie, I love you," he whispered.

"Mmm," she mumbled through the thick haze of sleep that was already around her, "love you, too, Charles." A couple seconds later, she sighed, "I didn't mean to make you cry."

"I know, dearest," he assured her. "Go to sleep, love."

Only after she was asleep did he go into the corridor and sit down in one of the chairs, sobbing his eyes out like he wasn't the great and reliable butler of Downton Abbey. This night, he was only a man; only a man dealing with such a blow that he didn't know if he could take another.

By the time his tears had ended, he had come to a decision, final and irrevocable.


	9. Chapter 9

IX:

* * *

Elsie woke from a deep sleep, the vestiges of a nightmare dripping off her consciousness as she came to herself. She was in a cold sweat, her brow dripping with perspiration, her nightdress clinging to her body beneath the scratchy sheets and blankets. Her heart was still racing, her mouth dry from the words that she had been screaming at the top of her lungs in sleep, despite them not reaching the waking world – or, rather, she hoped that they had not reached the waking world. She turned her head and saw Charles silhouetted in his cot in the dim light across the room, feeling a pang of pained guilt at the fact that he still felt the need to remain with her.

She didn't want to wake him, but she needed water and something for her headache – which was steadily getting worse. She was shaky and none too steady as the panic wore off to a dull feeling of unease that had pervaded her body since the afternoon when Becky had woken her and everything had shifted and become untenable.

It wasn't reasonable to expect anyone to sacrifice anything to provide her with comfort. If she couldn't provide for her own well-being, what use was she to anyone else? Why should anyone else give a tinker's damn about her? The panic began to rise again, and she couldn't quell it.

"Ch-Char-Mr. Carson?" Elsie said, her voice sticking in her throat as she tried to raise it enough to rouse him. He grumbled in his sleep, shifted, sighed, settled. "Charles?" He mumbled, turned over. "Charlie?"

That was enough to get him to sit straight up. "Elsie?" He was still half-asleep, but the part that was awake was awake enough to know she was calling for him.

"I'm sorry to wake you," she murmured. "I… I need some water and a headache powder."

He yawned and shuffled about a bit, getting his dressing gown and slippers before he really got to his feet and stretched the kinks out of his back. "Don't apologize for waking me," Carson said softly. "You needed me; it's what I am here for, dearest." He shuffled over to the bed and turned on one of her bedside lamps so the room was bathed in gentle light; even though it was feeble light, it was enough that they both flinched and blinked blearily. He paused for a long moment, then leaned over and gave her a very tender kiss. "I love you," he whispered, voice still hoarse from sleep.

"Charles –"

"Elsie, don't argue," he said. "I'll be right back."

Everything got so much worse in the few minutes he was gone; by the time he came back, she was shaking and tense, feeling like she was standing precipitously on the edge of a knife, waiting to fall and be cut to ribbons on the way down. Her head was splitting, her heart racing, her right hand unconsciously flexing and unflexing into a fist as her arm quaked. Snippets of the nightmare were coming back to her and she felt sick to her stomach.

"Come now, let's get this in you," Carson soothed gently. "You'll feel a world of good once the powder kicks in."

Elsie let him help her with the medicine and the water, but she highly doubted that any amount of medicine was going to help at that point; not after the dreams she had had. He ran a cool damp washrag over her cheeks and forehead and kissed her temple with such gentleness that she wanted to cry, but it would do her no good. He was far too good for the likes of her and she would do best to remember it.

"There, that's better," he rumbled softly. "Better now?" he asked, his hand coming down to gently hold hers – the one that was clenching into a fist repeatedly. She twitched and squeezed his hand, unconsciously holding him tightly like he was the most precious thing she owned. "Elsie, love, please talk to me."

"I can't," she whispered.

"You can. Anything you need to say –"

"It doesn't make sense," she said.

"It doesn't have to make sense, dearest."

She exhaled shakily, then closed her eyes. "You died. We were having the funeral; everyone said such wonderful things about you. Then, then I realized that I was in a wheelchair and I couldn't move it by myself and Lord Grantham came up and pushed me to the edge of the grave and then just… pushed me into it with your coffin. And they began burying me alive." She opened her eyes and looked up at him. "See? It makes no sense."

His eyes were soft and full of sad compassion; she wanted him to stop looking at her with pity. She was tired of him looking at her like that. "It makes perfect sense, Elsie," he said softly. "I'm so sorry."

"What have you got to be sorry for?" she challenged. "It isn't as if it's your fault I'm a cripple. It's my own bloody fault, I'm sure. You said I had a head injury –"

"You were in the storage attics, looking through some things for Lady Grantham," he said softly. "You were on your way down the stairs and apparently slipped and hit your head on the stairs on the way down, near as anyone could tell."

She nodded and sighed. "It's not… it's not the first time I've… I've been in a coma," she admitted very quietly.

"Yes. Becky told us about an incident –"

Elsie licked her lips and bit her lower lip hard. "Oh," she said very quietly. "Tellin' you all my secrets."

"Only the important ones," he said softly, pressing her shaking hand to his lips for a kiss. "Elsie, I know I will probably leave this world before you, if only because I am older," he added, his voice low and gravely, "but I do not intend to leave you any time soon. In fact, I plan to be around more often if you'll be so kind as to have me. Would you like that?"

"What about work?" she murmured.

He shrugged. "I've a bit of money set by. It will be fine."

"Charles, you can't just –"

"More than just a bit of money," he said very quietly. "I've an account that was left me from my godfather; he was a bit better off than we like to advertise. I didn't touch it after the Cheerful Charlies debacle because I was afraid that I couldn't be trusted with my own funds for the longest time, so it compounded interest and here we are." He shrugged. "There is no shame in resting a spell, Mrs. Hughes."

"I've never known you to want to rest –"

"It has been a difficult year," he said, smiling sadly. "We both need a bit of time to breathe."

"Oh," she whispered, her heart sinking. "To breathe."

"Elsie, love, I'm not going anywhere," he promised. "I'll be here. I'll be here as much as you like."

"Why are you leaving it up to me?"

"Because we are not married… yet. And because I should not push you."

"I'm tired," was what she said. What she wanted to say was, "Maybe you should push me, Charles." She couldn't bring herself to say the words.

"Yes, of course – it's two-thirty," he said. "We should both get some rest. I'll have to go to the Abbey in the morning and talk to His Lordship and –"

"Charlie," Elsie murmured, reaching out and touching his arm, "maybe you shouldn't make any rash decisions."

"This isn't a rash decision, dearest," he said very softly. "It is merely inevitable." With that, he tucked her back into bed and kissed her ever so tenderly. "I love you with every fiber of my being, Elsie May Hughes."

A tiny smile quirked at her lips. "And I love you, Charles Carson. With every fiber of my not very worthy being," she whispered.

He kissed her again. "Nonsense."

"I'm not –"

He kissed her. "Elsie, go back to sleep." He turned off the light. "I'll see you in the morning before I go to the Abbey. Good night, love."

She bit her lip for a moment, then murmured, "Good night, love."

* * *

Charles felt rather apprehensive as he clutched his bowler hat in both hands, waiting for admittance into the library. Barrow was smirking at him, obviously amused by his casual appearance – not in livery or uniform by any means, hair mussed by the wind – and was prolonging the inevitable torture. "Mr. Barrow, I have business to attend to, if you would please be so kind," Charles ground out through clenched teeth.

"Yes, Mr. Carson," Barrow snickered, going into the library. "M'lord, Mr. Crawley, Mr. Carson wishes to speak with you. It appears to be a matter of urgency, based on the state of him."

"Oh dear, something must have happened to Mrs. Hughes in the night," Lord Grantham said loudly. "Show him in, Barrow – show him in – Carson, come in, sit down, have a cup of tea, old chap and tell us what seems to be the trouble."

Charles fumbled his hat for a moment, lost for words. "My lord, it is – it is difficult for me to speak of this, seeing as how you have been nothing but patient, reasonable, and kind, for the last year…"

"Did Mrs. Hughes suffer a setback?" Mr. Matthew asked worriedly.

"No," Charles said quickly. "No, she is well as can be expected – which is not very, at the moment, to tell the truth, my lord." He took a deep breath. "Which is why I am here now, begging a moment of your time. I… I feel that you have not been receiving the due diligence you have paid in my salary as butler over the last year, and the next few months will be particularly harrowing in Elsie's recovery. I think now would be a reasonable time for us to part ways as friends and for me to retire; my efforts cannot be split between Downton Abbey and Downton Hospital every day, and my heart is not here any longer, my lord."

Lord Grantham's teacup was paused in midair between his saucer and his lips. "Is she really doing so poorly, then?" he asked with grave concern.

"No… she just needs more care than I can give her in two hours at night before bed," Charles said with no small amount of frustration. "She needs support and… and love."

"Steady on, Carson – are you really the person to give her love?"

"I have asked her to marry me, and she has accepted, so I would say yes," Charles said with an indignant kind of pride.

"Good for you, Carson," Mr. Matthew said with a smile. "You both deserve all the happiness you can muster after what you've been through. Mary will be a bit sad that you won't be here to see the baby born, but you will probably be at the hospital – she intends to deliver at the hospital, so…" He took a deep breath. "You may be one of the first people outside the family to see the newest member of the Crawley family."

"It would be an honor, Mr. Crawley," Charles said with gravitas. "My lord, I know that I will be leaving you in a bit of a bind by taking my leave today, but it cannot be helped – Mrs. Hughes was quite unwell during the night and Dr. Clarkson will want to see her as calm as possible today."

"We had already begun preparing for this eventuality," Mr. Matthew said, "and I took the liberty of sending a couple of the maids around to your grandmother's cottage to start cleaning it – I might have borrowed the key from your room."

Charles normally would have been outraged by the imposition, the impropriety, the invasion of his privacy, but instead, he found himself incredibly touched. "I've not got furniture or –"

"We'll furnish whatever you need from the storage attics," Lord Grantham was quick to assure him. "And practical things will be bought from the house expenditure by Mrs. Bates. Leave it in our hands and your home will be a very welcoming place to bring Mrs. Hughes home to when she is allowed to leave hospital."

"My lord, that is exceedingly generous of you," Charles began.

Lord Grantham held up a hand. "You have served our family for a very long time, Carson, and you deserve our gratitude and respect," he said with a small smile. "We will consider both you and Mrs. Hughes retired as of today with full pensions and, since you already own a cottage, a stipend for repair expenses for your cottage. You can come collect your personal belongings when it is convenient – but anything personal in your pantry should be taken up to your room today. Your wine collection will obviously have to be stored here until a cellar can be dug at your cottage."

"I'm sorry, my lord, but practical matters such as those will have to wait," Charles said hesitantly. "I really must get back to the hospital as quickly as I can. Until the cottage is ready, may I continue to base myself here at my room in the servants' quarters and –"

"Yes, of course," Lord Grantham said. "Carson, we did discuss this as a possibility – I do not want you to think that I was not listening or that I did not care to hear your concerns or plight at the time. Matthew and I have been making plans and executing them without your knowledge because it is expedient to do so, and it eases the burden that you are under, my dear fellow. Is Mrs. Hughes up to seeing visitors? I should like to see her later and wish her well."

"My lord, she is very frail of mind and body at the moment," Charles said, clutching his bowler and turning it nervously in his hands. "Maybe when you come back from Duneagle. I know you to be leaving the day after tomorrow, which is why it pains me so to leave you so suddenly – I was meant to be watching after Lady Mary and Mr. Crawley…"

"We will watch ourselves," Mr. Matthew said with a smile. "And if the baby decides he or she wants to come, we will come to the hospital and you will be able to watch us far more closely."

"Carson, you will be missed," Lord Grantham said in a serious tone, "however, you are needed most by Mrs. Hughes right now. Perhaps you should go speak to Mr. Travis about reading the banns beginning Sunday. I am certain no one in Downton will object."

"Elsie will," Charles said. "She wants to wait to be married until she is able to walk down the aisle to meet me." He frowned. "I don't know if that is a realistic goal, truthfully. That is why we will be moving into my grandmother's cottage – because it is all on one level. I suppose it is more a bungalow than a cottage, but…"

"It was purpose-built for a housekeeper who could no longer walk stairs," Lord Grantham said. "Your grandmother was a kind woman, Carson – I remember her vaguely from Sunday mornings at church."

"She always gave you a smile and a pat on the head," Charles said. "Till the day she died." His smile was wan and tired. "My lord, I'm sorry; I need to get back to the hospital."

"Yes, of course – give Mrs. Hughes our best," Lord Grantham said. "Whatever you will need while we are away should be coordinated through Mrs. Bates."

"Of course, my lord," Charles said, bowing and retreating quickly. He went to his pantry and packed his personal belongings quickly into a crate, moving them up to the attics into his bedroom, then he took pains to freshen up for the day ahead. He knew he looked a bit of a fright, but that came from having slept in a hospital and not having bathed – but he would come back at teatime and get a bath while Elsie was having her nap. He was sure no one would mind, and it certainly wouldn't disrupt the household.

On the walk back into the village, he mentally catalogued all the things he needed to do into columns in his head for expediency's sake: immediate, moderate, and future, things that needed to be handled in varying shades of time. Once those categories were created, he could slot his lists and make notes and feel much more secure in the knowledge that he was not overwhelmed and that by being organized, he was not overlooking any details.

Elsie was waiting for him when he came back, pale and drawn, her lip captured between her teeth. "I thought you weren't coming back," she whispered tearfully.

"Stuff and nonsense," he murmured, sitting down on her bed beside her. He leaned in and kissed her with all of the gentle desire he could muster, listening to the soft noises she made. "I am all yours now, Elsie Hughes," Charles promised. "Aside from taking a bath and moving some boxes of things and directing Mr. Branson and Mr. Matthew where to place furniture, that is."

"I don't understand."

He smiled and kissed her again. "We are creatures of leisure, Mrs. Hughes – as of today, we are both retired."

Her eyes widened. "I cannae retire!"

"It is already done, Elsie."

"How dare you make that decision for me –"

"I did not. His Lordship did."

Her lip quivered, then she scowled in frustration. "Bloody interfering men," she huffed. "I suppose you're chuffed about it."

"Elsie, love… I can spend more time with you – of course I am excited."

"I don't suppose you've thought of anything practical like where you will live or what will happen when the money runs out or –"

He stroked her cheek and smiled. "Our cottage will be ready soon," he said softly, "and the money won't run out any time soon. Even with me taking care of you and Becky."

"Charles…"

"Elsie, look at me," he said. "I am not lying to you. Now, have you eaten anything?"

She sighed. "I had a piece of toast."

He smiled. "That's better than water biscuits," he pointed out.

She bit her lip and mumbled, "There might have been a wee bit of jam on the toast?"

"Strawberry?"

"Plum."

His smile grew; plum jam was her favorite and he'd made sure that Mrs. Patmore had sent a jar up from the Abbey with the bottles of broth the day before. "Well… I'm glad to know you're feeling a bit better this morning," Charles said, giving her another gentle kiss. "Is there anything I can do to help you? Do you need a nappy change or a sponge bath or…?"

She held his hand, threading their fingers together. "Another slice of toast would be lovely," she murmured.

He squeezed her hand and nodded. "I'll be right back," he promised, kissing her knuckles. If Elsie wanted toast, he was damn well going to deliver.

The hollow feeling inside him would go away in time – wouldn't it?


	10. Chapter 10

X:

* * *

Charles knew Elsie was moping; Becky and Beryl were leaving to head back to Lytham St. Anne's, and the rest of the Granthams (save Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew) had departed to Scotland, leaving them basically on their own with very little company for the foreseeable future. Unless you counted the Dowager, who had already stated her intention to descend on them for tea in the afternoon – which he wasn't certain would aid in Elsie's recovery one bit. He was trying to be patient, but she was having none of it. She did only what was expected of her and nothing more; just the exercises prescribed by Dr. Clarkson, and only a bit of toast and tea. His frustration was rising, but he knew he had no right to express it: after all, it was not his recovery.

He returned from the staff shower fully dressed and hair freshly pomaded, feeling weary and beaten down even though he had rested most of the night. Elsie had slept the full night, not waking in the middle of the night as usual to request medicine for her headache, which had given him hope that the worst of that was perhaps past. But it hadn't kept him from awakening, listening for the tell-tale sounds of her stirring.

She was attempting to plait her hair with what seemed to be very long resting pauses where she closed her eyes and just breathed deeply, then resumed the task, and he settled in beside her. "Do you want some assistance, Elsie, love?" Charles asked.

"No, I'll be fine," Elsie murmured, her voice low and determined. "I'm almost finished."

"Are you very tired now?" he asked with no small amount of concern.

"Maybe, but…" She huffed and sighed, her fingers still working nimbly. "I need to do something, and my hair is in such a state."

"I'll speak to Dr. Clarkson and see if he'll allow a canvas tub to be brought in so we can give you a bath and wash your hair," Charles said softly. "I know it must be making you upset, not being able to do for yourself. I want to help."

The flash of irritation that had been on her face disappeared, replaced with weary sadness. "I know you do," Elsie said with a sigh as she tied off her braid with a scrap of fabric and settled back against her pillows, trying not to show him how much the simple effort had exhausted her. He knew, though; he could see it in the lines around her mouth, the drawn frown between her eyes, the way she held her arms carefully against her body as if protecting herself. "You shouldn't have to, Charles."

"I don't have to," he pointed out gently. "I want to. There is such a world of difference, love." He leaned over and tucked the blanket in around her and added, "Now, you close your eyes for a bit and I'll go see about some breakfast. How about an egg this morning?"

"Toast and tea," she murmured, already well on her way back to sleep.

"I just want you to know that I love you," he whispered as she dozed off. "And that, no matter what happens, I love you and that will not change, Elsie. You don't need to push me away, love, because I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?" she mumbled, barely conscious.

"I swear it," he whispered. "For better, worse, till death us do part, my dearest."

She made a quiet noise of what sounded like contentment and a tiny smile tweaked a corner of her lips before it vanished into her rest. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and sat back into his chair, releasing a tired breath that wasn't quite a sigh, but which was more than just an exhalation. That empty, hollow feeling he couldn't shake was stronger now than ever, and he knew it was only because he could do nothing, could say nothing, in her personal fight to make it any the easier, any the better, for her. He could only be there to hold her up when she stumbled, be there to catch her when she fell, offer her strong arms to be the support she needed to keep the world from crumbling around her.

He could only hope he would prove worthy of the charge in time.

She couldn't look at him, definitely couldn't meet his gaze, tried desperately to look anywhere but him as she took the soapy flannel from him – rose and lavender? Oh, god, he was so sweet to her… - and began trying to scrub away at her skin. "You can leave me for a few minutes," Elsie said very quietly.

"No, I cannot," Charles said. "I had to promise the doctor that I would stay with you while you bathed."

"I'm in bloody three inches of tepid water – what does he think is going to happen?" she shot back, quickly losing steam. She was furious with herself; she should have far more stamina than this.

"Dearest," he said very gently, "let me help."

"It isn't… it isn't right – it isn't proper," she spit out. "You never should have –"

"Elsie, look at me," Charles said, his voice firmer, more business-like. "You require help that I can provide. I am not taking liberties, nor would I even if I were your husband in name and practice. Please allow me to help you to heal – and then we can talk marriage and the rest of our lives."

"And if I don't heal?" she challenged.

"Then we will talk about the rest of our lives. And marriage." He reached out to gently place his hand on her shoulder, obviously attempting to give her a steadying presence. "You're shaking, love – are you cold?"

"I'm… I am… I am finding this very difficult," she stammered out and turned to meet his gaze for the first time since he had helped her out of her clothes and into the lukewarm water. "All of it. And I am – I cannot – I'm afraid I'm too tired to do much more." What kind of a woman was she? She had been so proud once, so vain and full of herself and her accomplishments and now look at her – she couldn't even wash herself without aid. And from a man not her own husband, even – her mother would have been mortified. Her father would have – well, nevermind what he would have done. It would not have been pleasant. She turned herself off, turned inward into herself and stopped paying attention to Charles and the world around her for a long time until she realized she was back in her bed in a clean nightgown and he was very carefully brushing out the snarls in her hair. "You don't have to –"

"Shh," he soothed. "Elsie… I am sorry."

"What for?"

He shook his head and sighed. "Making you uncomfortable."

"Well… someone has to do it," she said, frowning. "I'm worthless to mysel'. So it might as well be you, since I cannae do it." She looked away from him and refused to meet his gaze again.

"You aren't worthless."

"I cannae take care of myself. How am I going to be a proper wife to ye?" she countered. As much as she loved him, she didn't want him to throw his life away on her – especially if there was no hope that she would recover enough to be able to take care of herself in even a small way again. It wasn't fair to ask him to give up everything for her.

"You aren't worthless," he repeated, his voice shaking. "Don't every say that you are worthless again, Elsie – please, don't ever say it." He grasped her hand firmly between both of his hands and held it tightly. "You are worth everything and more – so much more. So much more than just this. Elsie, love…"

"You're throwing away everything for me," she whispered.

"Life changes us," he said softly, "and we're meant to find the family and friends who tread the path with us. I was a fool not to have… to have held you at arm's length for so long, Elsie, when I felt so strongly for you –"

"Mr. Carson – Charles… _Charlie_," she breathed, finally daring to turn to look at him. "Our hearts were not our own to give."

A quiet harrumph came from the doorway, then the decisive thump of a cane on the wooden floor. "Maybe so, but they are yours now and he is clearly giving his freely," the Dowager Countess of Grantham said with no small amount of irritation in her tone. "And yet, you are hell bent on rejecting him, Miss Hughes."

"Come in and sit down, my Lady," Charles invited, vacating his chair immediately. "We weren't expecting you until this afternoon – at teatime."

"Yes, well, we had occasion to be in the hospital on business and I diverted," Violet said, sitting down and glaring at Elsie, who shied away. She was unwilling to rise to the fight that the Dowager was spoiling for; not when she was already so fragile. "Dr. Clarkson says you are progressing well?"

"It doesn't feel like progress at all," Elsie murmured.

The Dowager's haughty countenance softened visibly and she reached over to hold Elsie's hand. "My dear, don't let's forget: less than a fortnight ago, you were unconscious and never expected to recover," she pointed out gently. "I think we can be patient, can't we?" She looked up at Charles and said, "Carson, would you mind very greatly if I were to ask you to run and fetch a pot of tea? I know you are no longer butler, however –"

"Yes, my Lady," he agreed, turning on his heel and vacating the room quickly.

* * *

"If you are going to tell me –" Elsie began.

"Stop," the Dowager said firmly, holding up one hand. "You are not well. It is not going to be an easy recovery, nor a quick one. You must be patient, Miss Hughes. Carson has already had to learn this lesson the hard way; the uncertainty, the patience, the acceptance… and now, it is your turn. He will show you the way, if you will allow him to. But you must allow him to care for you in the ways that he can, because that is how he proves to himself that he is still worthy of you." The Dowager's smile was small and thin. "He loves you far more than he has ever loved anyone else, my dear, and it terrifies him."

"I don't… M'lady, I don't know how to not be strong," Elsie confessed. "I've always had to do for myself –"

"You're mistaking sheer bloody-minded stubbornness with strength," the Dowager said bluntly. "Rome was not built in a day, no matter what the Italians want us to think; it just is not possible. Nor is it likely, despite the church leaders' say-so, that the Lord created the universe in seven days." She took a deep breath, then let it out. "I, myself, am guilty – from time to time – of being… impatient. So I do understand your frustration."

"Do you really now?" Elsie asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I think I do."

"I think you do not – there are things I could tell you about what has been going on here that would make even you blush," Elsie said as Charles came back into the room with a tea tray. "Isn't that right, Charles?"

He glanced between the women and then back down at the tea. "I forgot the sugar," he said quickly.

"Carson," the Dowager barked imperiously. "What is she on about? Have you behaved at all inappropriately?"

"I beg your pardon?" Charles stammered, looking from one woman to the other, growing red in the face, his eyebrows standing out even more. "I would never –"

"Explain yourself," the Dowager ordered.

"I merely assisted Elsie with a bath," Charles said. "There was nothing improper, my Lady."

The Dowager's eyes narrowed. "Have you spoken yet of marriage or –"

"We are engaged," Elsie murmured.

"Congratulations are in order, then," the Dowager said. "I will speak to Mr. Travis on your behalf and begin the reading of the banns – if you wish it. Or I can procure a special license –"

"Or we can fumble along in our own time," Charles interrupted. "My Lady, there is nothing improper in my assisting Elsie in the manner of a nurse –"

"Except in that you are seeing parts of me that even I've never seen," Elsie pointed out, biting her lip after the words had left it. "Oh, Charles, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to – I am – no, please, don't look at me like that. I didn't mean… I didn't mean to say that you're looking at me that way. Why would you?"

"Because you are beautiful and I love you?" he shot back angrily.

She swallowed hard and looked down at her hands. "Yes, well, I suppose I deserved that."

"You suppose?"

The Dowager held up a hand. "Enough," she said. "All of this awkwardness and impropriety would go away if you were married, yes?"

"Yes," Elsie said. Then just as quickly, "No. I don't know. Maybe?"

"Then I shall do my best to procure a special license on your behalf."

"My Lady, your offer is very gracious, but –"

"But I don't want to marry until I can be a proper wife," Elsie protested weakly, but with an anger that stemmed from her frustration with herself and her situation that seeped into the words.

The Dowager tapped her cane on the floor in disgusted frustration. "Miss Hughes! What on God's green earth do you mean by a 'proper wife', because I can tell you that we are a nation of war widows and wives who work the fields and who man the machines and drive ambulances and play in cricket leagues against gentlemen and there is no such thing anymore as a 'proper wife'!" Her tirade was fierce and cutting. "If you mean able to clean after yourselves, we can get a girl in from the village to do for you until you feel up for it – and your laundry and linens may be collected and washed at the Abbey. I'm certain my son wouldn't mind, and if he did, I would remind him that he doesn't mind at all. And Carson can cook enough to warm food from the Abbey kitchens and make sandwiches. None of that 'proper wife' nonsense, if you please."

"But what use am I as a wife if I am not to cook or clean or – oh. Oh, I am to… to warm the bed, then," Elsie said, her cheeks flushing at the implications of something far more indelicate than him just seeing her improperly.

"Oh for – Elsie, while I'd love nothing more than for us to have a full marriage and live together as husband and wife in as close a manner as we could until death us do part," Charles said in a rush, "we are friends, yes? I do not want to lose my best friend. Not ever. I would walk through fire for you, Elsie Hughes. You don't have to prove yourself to be a perfect proper wife because I know I'll never be a perfect proper husband."

"But you'll…" Elsie hesitated, glancing furtively at the Dowager, then Charles. "You'll always be better at it than me, Charles," she whispered. "And I'm so _afraid_. So very, very afraid that you'll look at me and see everything you've given up and then you'll begin to resent me and hate me and – and by then, I'll be dependent on you, and what then? Don't you see? Don't you see why I –" She was beginning to become very upset; she couldn't articulate her feelings, her emotions. The words wouldn't come together, make sense, and she was left with a jumble of pain and twisted upset.

The Dowager was frowning. "I've never known you to wallow in self-pity, Miss Hughes," she said brusquely. "Even when it was warranted."

"Maybe not before now," Elsie mumbled, "but…" She bit her lip again. "I just… I can't if –"

"Do you really think me capable of…?" Charles began in disbelief.

She bit back a startled retort of disbelief at his incredulousness: after all they had seen and experienced, how could he even think for a second that she was so naïve as to believe anyone – even him – at face value? She bloody well had had enough adventures in one lifetime trying to keep up with other people's secrets, let alone trying to live with her own.

It took every ounce of will and every bit of trust that she'd ever possessed to offer him her hand and whisper, "No, I don't think… not really. That's why it's a fear, Charles."

"Your fear is going to do me head in," he said in a low, broad Yorkshire tone that she'd never heard come out of his mouth before, and it took a moment to realize that this was the real Charles, the one that he held back so carefully, that he modulated and cultured and groomed into a booming posh butler's tone. It was almost alien to her ears, much the way her accent must seem to him when she really let it loose for him to hear. "Do you want me to leave, Elsie?"

"No," she whispered. "No, I don't."

"Then there is something I want you to know before we continue on," he said, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand, then turning it over and pressing gentle kisses to the palm, then her thumb, then each of her fingers in turn. "When I am washing you, when I am dressing you, when I am changing your nappy, or doing any of the things that embarrass you and make you uncomfortable… I am not looking at you because I desire and want you, Elsie. I am looking at you because I need to know if there have been changes since the last time – if you have a skin rash. If you are bruised or have sores or anything that I need to report to the doctor to be looked at further. I love you. I want what is best for you, even if that means that someone else takes over your care – though I am perfectly willing and able to handle it." He smiled sadly and kissed her palm again. "And now I'm going to go see about getting you some toast and jam, love."

The Dowager waited until he was gone before she said, "His grandmother had a stroke when he was a very young boy. While his mother worked at the Abbey, he would take care of his grandmother. Some things are never lost." She paused for a long moment, then murmured, "I am afraid I have made things worse."

"No. I… I have bad moments," Elsie admitted, her voice very soft. "I don't know how he puts up with me at all."

"Love, Miss Hughes. He loves you, very much." The Dowager stood up shakily and thumped her cane on the floorboards. "The special license won't be a problem – and gossip in the village will be silenced immediately."

"There's gossip in the village? About… Charles and me?" Elsie asked, eyes wide.

"There is always going to be gossip in the village," the Dowager huffed. "It is part of village life, like going to the baker and green grocer. Wake up, trade gossip with the postmistress. In this case, I am in a position to squash her like a bug, and I am very willing to do so on your behalf, Miss Hughes, because I have seen with my own two eyes that there is no cause for what is being spread around."

"What is being said?" Elsie asked.

"Namely that you have been taken advantage of."

"By Charlie?" she asked, her shocked voice little more than a whisper. "Ridiculous. Never."

"But the special license and Mr. Travis being willing to perform a quick service out of church will go very much toward quelling those nasty rumors on their own," the Dowager pointed out. "And since it was on your agenda anyway…"

"Don't tell him," Elsie said. "He has his pride. I don't want him to lose that, too. I've taken everything else from him."

"My dear," the Dowager said, "think of everything you are giving him – and yourself." With that, she was gone, leaving as much damage in her wake as a hurricane.

* * *

It had been a very awkward nine hours since Dr. Clarkson had kicked Mr. Matthew out into the corridors and he had wandered aimlessly into Elsie's room. They had tried to entertain him, but the pained screeching cries that had echoed through the hospital – goodness knew Lady Mary couldn't keep her mouth shut at the best of times – only served as a backdrop of distraction. Books and cards and even frank and simple conversation had finally given over to pacing on both the part of Mr. Matthew and Charles.

Elsie had long since given up and gone to sleep, simple weariness taking its toll on her. Charles, of course, kept a close eye on her and made certain she wasn't taking ill, but…

Suddenly, the noises changed, and a baby's cry could be heard loudly through the halls. "Congratulations," Charles said warmly, shaking Mr. Matthew's hand eagerly.

Elsie stirred awake and mumbled, "Lad or lass?"

"Just born, love," Charles replied. "We don't know yet."

"Mmm…"

"I should –" Mr. Matthew made a gesture at the door and then was off like a shot, leaving them in his wake.

Elsie dragged herself to wakefulness and yawned with all the tiredness of someone who had been awakened from a sound sleep. "That should have been you," she murmured with some wistfulness. "You would have been a wonderful father, Charles."

Charles shook his head, blustering for a moment. "No," he finally settled for saying. "I only ever wanted children with one woman, and we were never suited for one another until now, so… I would not have been a good father without you, Elsie." He smiled sadly. "We have been parents of a kind, haven't we? To those beneath us at Downton Abbey over the years, I mean."

"Maybe," she hedged softly, reaching out to stroke his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Opening up this can of worms – old wounds –"

"Elsie, honestly, it's fine," he said, shrugging. "Maybe we weren't meant to have children at all. I am all right with that."

"I don't know that I would have been a good mam," Elsie said very quietly. "I learned a lot of things from mine that I'm afraid I would've passed on that… aren't very nice."

"I learned nothing but softness from my mother," Charles said with a sad smile. "The world taught me discipline and shaped me into a man."

"But your granny taught you kindness," she replied.

He went very cold; it had been a very long time since he'd thought about his long days as a boy caring for his grandmother. How it had felt to be a small boy cooped up with her, how he'd wanted to be anywhere but there. Yet, how he'd dutifully stayed and helped to the best of his ability. "It wasn't kindness, Elsie." He stopped, unwilling to say more.

Fortunately, Mr. Matthew had appeared in the doorway. "Hello," he said with a bright smile. "There's a wee chap that wishes to make his godparents' acquaintance."

"Godparents?" Elsie said with surprise. "Surely not –"

"Mary asked for Carson, and I said if she would insist on him, I would insist on you," Mr. Matthew said with a chuckle. "Now, Mrs. Hughes, this lovely lad of ours is to be called George… would you like to hold him?"

"Oh, I should verra much," Elsie said. Charles helped her into a more stable position and aided her in cradling the tiny baby in her arms. "Oh, he's lovely, Mr. Crawley – you and Lady Mary have done well. Ever so well."

"Now, you'll have to promise to get better so you can help chase this little scamp around," Mr. Matthew said with a smile. "And you have to promise to be the best godmother you can possibly be."

Elsie smiled tearfully and pressed a kiss to the sleeping baby's forehead. "That is a very tall order – and I cannae but think ye've been talkin' to Mr. Carson," she scolded gently. "I am trying, Mr. Crawley. I am trying – but everyone keeps telling me to be patient with myself and that Rome wasnae built in a day and I find myself getting frustrated because there is no progress… with no end in sight."

Charles lifted the tiny baby into his arms, smiling down at him. "Master George, your Godmama Elsie is a wonderful woman," he said very softly, hoping to drown out Elsie's protestations. "You'll get to know exactly how wonderful very soon, my lad. She wants everything to be perfect and she doesn't understand that it can't always be that way – and it is all right. You're not going to care if the biscuits are lopsided or a little burnt, or if the blankets aren't folded perfectly, or if the curtains match the sofa. What you'll remember is how much she loves you, how she will take you into the garden and show you the birds and the flowers, how she will walk you through the village and introduce you to her friends and say what a lovely boy you are, how she will show you to skip rocks on the pond and sing Gaelic tunes. Because she loves you already, my lad. And you are the luckiest little boy on earth." He gave the boy a gentle kiss on the forehead and smiled again. "Good lad."

He glanced up to see Elsie openly weeping. "Charlie Carson, you daft beggar," she choked.

"You'd better give him back to me," Mr. Matthew said with a small chuckle, "and tend to the future Mrs. Carson."

Charles gently passed George back to his father and went to the bed to curl up with Elsie, taking her into his arms and holding her close until her tears were spent. "I meant every word," he whispered into her hair. "You will be as important to that lad as his own grandmothers," he promised, "because you will love him fiercely as a godmama."

"What about you?" she whispered.

"I'll just be Carson," he said with a shrug. "It's all right. It's who I am, Elsie. I am relegated to the background – but you? You deserve more."

She tucked her head into his shoulder and pressed her face into his flesh. "I love you," she mumbled. "You sweet, daft man."

"I love you more, you lovely woman," he whispered back. "Now, go to sleep so we can get up and get back to work. Maybe you can try to stand up today if I help?"

"That's overly optimistic," she sighed.

"But you will try?"

She bit her lip, then nodded. "I… I will try," Elsie whispered. "But you cannot let me fall, Charles."

He smiled and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I would never dare, love," he whispered. "I would never let you fall, Elsie."


	11. Chapter 11

So, uh, it's been a rough few months and I've scrapped this chapter five times, hoping for a less dismal outcome each time. I think I finally cracked it?

* * *

XI:

* * *

He knew the moment he got her onto her feet that something was wrong; she went very pale and bit her lip, trying to hide her pain from him. "Elsie?"

"No," she said firmly, "I will do this –"

"No," Charles countered, "love, you're white as the sheet." He maneuvered her back into a sitting position on the bed and began checking her over carefully. "Where does it hurt, Elsie?" he asked brusquely, his fingertips dancing over her skin, trying to ascertain where the injury was. "Dearest?"

She huffed and mumbled, "My right leg – feels like a thousand burning pinpricks all round it."

He could tell when he hit the sorest spot; she lurched off the bed about four inches, a cry escaping her lips involuntarily. "I'm going to get the doctor – no more trying to walk for you, lass," he said gravely. "At least not today." He didn't want to state the obvious: that he'd bullied her into trying, and now she was injured worse than she'd been before. "Will you be all right?"

"Do I have a choice?" Elsie mumbled, whimpering a little. He paused and wiped the tears away that were rolling down her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs; this was his fault, all his fault. If only he'd left well enough alone last night and not pushed her so hard…

"I'm sorry," Charles said softly. "I'm so sorry, Elsie –"

"You've done nothing to be sorry for," she said, but her tone was short, clipped, and she wouldn't meet his gaze, which made him feel sick to his stomach with guilt. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and hurried from the room, stopping in the corridor when he heard her muffling cries of pain before moving faster than before to fetch a nurse or Dr. Clarkson – whoever he found first.

Unfortunately, the first nurse he managed to find was busy delivering Master George to Lady Mary – and he was loathe to interrupt in that task, so he stood there in the doorway, wringing his hands. "Carson, why on earth are you standing out there looking abominable?" Lady Mary called out.

"I… I need to speak with the nurse, m'lady," he said quickly. "It's rather an emergency and –"

"Has something happened to Mrs. Hughes?" Lady Mary inquired, eyes wide as she covered herself and began to fumble around to attempt to nurse the baby. "Carson, is Mrs. Hughes all right?"

"No, m'lady."

The young woman stared at him for a long moment then said, "Is she physically unwell or…"

"I fear she has done herself injury because of me," Charles said. "I convinced her to attempt to walk today and no sooner was she on her feet than she was in terrible pain and, well… her leg that was broken in the fall was beginning to bruise when I looked at it. All just from bearing her weight."

Lady Mary flinched and said, "Carson, take my nurse immediately – George will be eating for some time yet, and if I need anything, I will call for someone. Mrs. Hughes needs help more than I do at the moment."

By the time they got back to Elsie's room, she was so pale in the face that she was nearly grey, and she was biting her lip so hard she was very near to drawing blood. Charles immediately went to support her into a gentle sitting position, cradling her and holding her tenderly. "I love you," he whispered.

The nurse looked her over, wincing when she saw her leg. "I'll go get Dr. Clarkson," she said. "It shouldn't have done that."

"That isn't very reassuring," Elsie ground out through clenched teeth. Her breathing was quick and shallow, and he wondered at how she wasn't already unconscious from hyperventilation. "Charlie," she exhaled weakly, "I don't think I'll chance walking again any time soon."

"Maybe not," he agreed softly, pressing a kiss to her temple and just doing his best to support her and ease her pain as he could. "Is there anything I can do?"

Before she could answer, Dr. Clarkson appeared and began barking orders at several nurses, taking barely a moment to look at Elsie's leg before pronouncing that it had likely hairline fractured again once she had put weight on it and that they needed to get her into the room to do new x-ray pictures to confirm that diagnosis. He paused and studied the pair of them on the bed and said, "Carson, I assume that you'll be carrying Mrs. Hughes into x-ray?"

"No," Elsie spoke up softly but firmly. "Mr. Carson can help me into the push chair, but he doesn't need to carry me everywhere – he'll put his back out." She patted his hand reassuringly and smiled sadly.

"Elsie –"

She held his hand with a grip far weaker than he was used to, and her voice shook a little as she murmured breathlessly with pain, "Charles, I will be fine in the doctor's hands. I know you want to help, but right now, the only way you can help is to stay out of the way." Her breath hitched and she went ash white when the doctor barely touched the bruising on her leg, and Charles very nearly went into protective bear mode. He held back, merely holding her still and close. "Please?" Her voice was weak and thready when next it came.

"I will go speak to Mr. Travis about the banns," Charles said in a low, even tone. "If I must endure this hell, I will do it as your husband –"

"Yes," Elsie whispered, closing her eyes. "I wish we didn't have to wait – such fools, Charlie. We've been such fools."

"Mr. Carson, if you would help her into the push chair?" Dr. Clarkson prompted. "The sooner we get the photos made, the sooner we will know what treatment to pursue."

He did as he was bid, picking Elsie up as if she weighed no more than a down pillow and depositing her into the push chair with a tender gentleness that was not lost on anyone in the room. He tried to ignore her quiet sounds of agony, but they tore straight to his heart, leaving him with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. When she was seated, he leaned down and cupped her face in his hands, gently kissing her on the lips. "I love you, Elsie Hughes," Charles rumbled softly. "And I am sorry – so sorry – that I bullied and chivvied you into trying to –"

"You didn't," she whispered. "I wanted to, Charles. I wanted to try."

He caressed her cheeks and kissed her again, pressing their foreheads together before stepping aside and allowing her to be taken away. Charles felt helpless and scared, nearly as much so as he had the night he had found her in the storage attics all those months ago, faced with the unknown peril at hand – only now, it was staring him in the face, and the face looking back mockingly at him was his own. He had pressured her to attempt to stand and look where it had gotten them.

He could only pray she would be all right.

* * *

Elsie struggled awake; the morphine Dr. Clarkson had given her for the pain after setting her leg and plastering it had knocked her for a loop. She had no idea how long she had been asleep, or if Charles had come back yet – if he had, how much had he been told? Was he still worrying about everything? Was he still blaming himself for her own stubborn insistence that she could do it anyway? She yawned, her tongue too thick in her mouth and her brain fuzzy and not at all put together.

"Hello, love," Charles said softly. "Do you want some water?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice yet – not until she could clear her throat. He helped her drink some water and get comfortable, and Elsie murmured, "What has the doctor told you?"

"Not much."

She nodded, hesitating before just launching into an explanation. "My bones are brittle from malnutrition and combined with the earlier break not healing properly, when I attempted to walk, I had a bit of an incident and fractured my leg along the same line," Elsie said, waving her hand dismissively. "It isn't meant to do that, but it did, and now I am less than useless – even more so than before." She exhaled a derisive snort and looked up at him. "I will understand, Charles, if you want to be rid of me."

"My darling, don't be ridiculous," he said softly, reaching up and stroking her cheek. She leaned into the warmth of his touch, humming a little at the delight of being home with him. "I want to be with you – I would not be living in the hospital with you if I did not love you and want to be with you in every way that is available to us in life, Elsie. Do you really think that I am going to turn tail and run after all this time?"

"No, but I am afraid you'll get tired of me when I cannae do and be what a proper wife should," Elsie whispered.

"If I wanted a housekeeper, I would hire one," he said gruffly. "We've left that behind, you and I – we're just Charles and Elsie now, soon to be Mr. and Mrs. Carson of Rosewood Cottage. We aren't the butler and housekeeper anymore – we're just a man and a woman, dearest."

"An able-bodied man who will be doing all of the work and a woman who won't be doing much," Elsie muttered glumly. "Not that I was a prize cook ever in my life, but to be stuck in a push chair or worse, in bed, all of the time, makes it even more difficult."

Charles smiled a little and said, "Good thing I can make eggs and sandwiches."

"You jest now, but in a few months' time –"

"In a few months, I will still be praising the Lord Almighty that you're alive and well and in my arms," he said softly and earnestly. "Elsie, a few weeks ago, I thought I would never see your lovely smile again. I thought I'd never be able to tell you how much I love you and hear you say the words back to me – you being alive and even partially well is a miracle, dearest. And if I have to live on scrambled egg and cress sandwiches the rest of my life, so be it."

Elsie smiled sadly. "I might not be able to walk again," she said. "If my leg doesn't heal as it should."

"Then we'll get a push chair."

"It isn't fair to you –"

"The cottage is one level," he said with a small smile on his lips. "No stairs, love."

She bit her lip and sighed heavily. "Charles…"

"You think that you're going to make me change my mind just by –"

"No, I just… I want to offer you a way out," she whispered, reaching out to touch his arm ever so gently. "Before it's too late."

"It was too late when I realized I was in love with you," he admitted with a rueful smile. "Now, how about something to eat? Some bread and cheese?"

"Charles…"

"Elsie, you must eat something," he pointed out. "I've let you be for over a week, trying to let you adjust to what's happened and now I feel that I have been… remiss in allowing you to wallow and become depressed in your situation when you should never have been allowed to become so. Yes, things will not be easy – but when are they ever? Life is not easy, nor is it simple. What is simple is that we love one another and have decided to marry despite the challenges before us; and I intend to care for you as best I can. Now – would you like some bread and cheese? I've been to Bakewell's on the way back and have bread and cheese and some dried apricots, if you'd like some of those, love."

She exhaled and said, "Charles, I don't want you to resent me because you've given up everything to be with me and now I am –"

"You are alive." He squeezed her hand. "You are conscious and speaking to me. A few weeks ago, had someone asked me if I thought you ever would be again, I would honestly have said no. A few weeks ago, there was very little hope you would ever open your eyes again – and, to be brutally honest, I was prepared for you to be little more than coherent if you had, based on your head injury." He took a deep breath and let it out with a low sigh. "That you are doing as well as you are is a miracle, Elsie, and I will never take it for granted – if you cannot walk again, we will deal with that as it comes. If you struggle with things, we will hire a nurse to help you and I, or a maid to clean house because I am not up to your standards. None of these things are insurmountable, Elsie."

"You say that now with such conviction," she whispered, her voice breaking. "But… Charlie… you don't know how you'll feel in a few weeks when you're tired of putting up with my infirmity." She tapped the side of her head and mumbled, "do you know what hurts? I know I live here, I know I work here, and have done for a long while – but I don't remember coming to Downton or what I did before. I remember the farm, being a child, doing things, but I'd never be able to tell you where I grew up or where my parents are buried. I didn't know Mrs. Crawley's name until you said it – I knew her face, but not her name." She paused for a long moment, then inhaled deeply. "I didn't know who you were when I first woke up. And you were there – right there, changing my clothes and touching me and I was terrified, Charles. My memory isn't all there, and I don't think it ever will be – I try to make do, and I pretend because it makes people feel more comfortable, but I just…" She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I can't do that to you. I won't."

"Elsie…"

"I don't remember when I fell in love with you," she whispered. "I used to know so clearly – and now… now I don't."

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Elsie, what matters is that you love me – the rest is just details," he said softly. "We love one another and that's enough, isn't it?"

"But you know when you began to love me, don't you?" Her voice faltered, wavered.

"No," he said, "but I'm fairly certain it might have started as a twinkling of respect when you fell off the ladder in the library and broke your arm – and got up and kept dusting even though you were in terrible pain and it was in an odd angle."

She shook her head. "I don't remember," Elsie said, biting her lip. "See? Useless, I am."

"Not useless," Charles said in a gentle, reverent tone. "You had been at Downton less than two weeks, and you were head housemaid at the time – you and one of the maids were dusting the chandelier in the library and the dog ran through and upset the ladder. You fell down and broke your arm, but insisted on getting back on the ladder and finishing the job, because the maid was deathly afraid of heights and you couldn't see the use of having a fainter on a ladder. When you came down, you were white as a sheet and your lips were purple, and you collapsed in my arms. Mrs. Winters nearly had the vapors with the impropriety of it all, but I assured her that there was nothing improper about the butler carrying the head housemaid to the servants' hall to await the doctor if I was the strongest man about to do it."

"You have always been there to catch me, then?" Elsie whispered.

"Not always," he said. "And for that, I am ashamed. I should have done better as a friend, and as… as the man who cared for you."

She closed her eyes and sighed. "It hasn't always been love."

"No, it has not."

She smiled sadly. "Charles… I just don't want you to regret giving up your life, your happiness, to take care of me. I may never be the Elsie you knew again."

"You're always Elsie," he said softly. "Even if you change, even if you don't remember a little – even if you can't walk or do for yourself."

"Can you love me that much?" she whispered.

"I already do," he promised. "Mr. Travis has agreed that our circumstances are such that he has worked with Lady Violet and the Archbishop of Canterbury to secure a special license, and we could be married at any time – but I don't want to push you into anything you aren't ready for or don't want, Elsie. Above all else, you and I are friends, and I would love you as my friend foremost." He stroked her hand comfortingly. "And I would continue to care for you regardless of what anyone else says or thinks."

"I agreed to marry you," she murmured. "And if I know anything about myself, it's that I do as I say I will do. And I'll not draw any shame of impropriety to your house, Mr. Carson – you won't stand for it."

"I don't care about anyone else's opinion but yours," he said firmly. "They can all lump it, Elsie, and I mean it. What do you want, love?"

She smiled at the way their hands fit together so naturally, the way it felt so calming to be in his presence, the way he seemed to love her so much… "You, Charlie," Elsie said very softly. "I want you. Feel like I always have done, but I don't remember, so I can't say for sure –"

He cleared his throat and mumbled, "You don't remember slapping me, then?"

Her brow creased. "I never did – when did I –"

His cheeks colored. "The day you broke your arm," Charles said very quickly. "Falling off the ladder. When I carried you to the servants' hall, I kissed your forehead and scolded you for continuing to work while injured, and you slapped me and told me to keep my opinions to myself and that you were still fit enough to fight off improper advances from randy butlers."

She bit her lip and whispered, "I remember you kissing my forehead, vaguely. I don't remember slapping you or saying such a cruel thing –"

"You apologized when you realized I had only acted in concern," Charles said softly. "But even then, I might have been falling a bit in love with your stubborn spirit. Please don't shut me out, Elsie. I'm not just the emotionless old butler you can put in a corner and lock away now."

"You never were," she whispered, threading her fingers with his and holding his hand tightly. "You're my Charlie Carson. Even if I don't know precisely how you became mine."

"It doesn't matter," he said, running his thumb over her knuckles. "Only that it happened at all, love."

She had a brief flash of him stroking her hand like that once before, through her heavy leather winter gloves, his touch barely felt but scorching nonetheless. She looked up at him for a long moment, trying to place the memory, but it eluded her; just the biting cold of winter, of icy air, and the light kiss of snow taunted her. And just as quickly as it had come, it was gone, leaving her confused and frustrated in its wake.

This was her life now: headaches, disjointed memories, infirmity, dependence on others for basic tasks… and, through it all, Charles. He was always there to hold her hand and keep her steady.


	12. Chapter 12

XII:

* * *

The weight of the ring on her finger was new and odd, and kept distracting her as she signed the papers with shaky flourish. "There, that's that," Elsie murmured, looking up at the vicar and her new husband. "I am no longer Mrs. Hughes…"

"No," Charles said, "you are Mrs. Carson. And a finer one I could never have wished for."

"Congratulations," Rev. Travis said with a small smile. "I must say, Mrs. Carson, that your recovery is miraculous in and of itself and –"

"And I shall be glad to be getting back to church when I am able," she interjected firmly, passing him back his pen and paperwork. "But for now, alas, I am still confined to the hospital for the time being." She glanced up at Charles and bit her lip, unwilling to say that she was still confined to the hospital bed more than anything else – it sounded lurid and wrong, and far more detail than the vicar needed to know. "Thank you for being willing to –"

"Mrs. Carson, it was my pleasure to perform the ceremony –"

Charles cleared his throat. "Mr. Travis, I don't mean to be unkind, but there appear to be well-wishers waiting in the corridor to see Mrs. Carson from the big house, and we shouldn't wish to inconvenience Lord and Lady Grantham any more than necessary," he said sternly. His voice softened, "And Mrs. Carson is tired, so we should hurry though and allow her to rest."

"Maybe not so tired as all that, Charlie, dear," Elsie murmured. "You mustn't be rude and rush everyone out on my account." She squeezed his hand to signal she was all right and smiled up at him. "I thank ye, Mr. Travis, for coming to marry us today – it is most appreciated."

The vicar nodded and smiled, leaving the room and Charles looked down at Elsie. "Are you sure you're well enough to receive guests, love?"

"I'm a little tired, but I'm fine for now," she promised. "I'll let you know if it becomes too much."

Not at surprisingly, their first well-wishers were Anna Bates and Thomas Barrow, housekeeper and butler of Downton Abbey, who would be needed back at the house first. Anna immediately rushed forward to embrace Elsie and pepper her with kisses, while Barrow held back and grudgingly gave Charles a handshake of congratulations. "Goodness, you're going to smother me," Elsie chuckled softly. "Anna, goodness gracious – "

Anna pulled back and smiled tearfully. "I'm just glad someone is happy," she murmured. "And I'm pleased to be happy for you, while I cannot be happy for myself and Mr. Bates and the situation we find ourselves in right now with –"

Elsie's smile faded and she nodded. She didn't know all of the particulars, as Charles hadn't filled her in of any details, but she knew that Mr. Bates was in prison for murdering his first wife – which did not seem to fit him, or rather, what she remembered of him. But her memory being what it was, she couldn't be certain of anything, nor speak with any certainty. "Oh, lass," she sighed. "You know you can come talk to me whenever you can get away, yes? I can send Charles off to do something and we can have a right chinwag and you can get everything off your chest – I can't do much but listen and offer a bit of support."

Anna smiled wanly. "I wouldn't want to trouble you when your own troubles are so great," she said, her voice soft but strong and firm. "And I'm sure Mr. Carson wouldn't want it, either."

"Anna, you are always welcome," Charles said gruffly, "no matter be the weather stormy or well."

"Mr. Barrow, how do you find being butler on your own now?" Elsie inquired conversationally.

"It is a learning experience," Barrow replied. "I am glad to see you are doing well, Mrs. Hug- Mrs. Carson. Congratulations… I would never have pegged the two of you as marrying, but –"

Elsie shrugged delicately and smiled. "Yes, well… when one is well and truly incapacitated for the rest of one's life, it puts a bit of a dampener on things like going up and down the stairs. And working. If Mr. Carson hadn't so kindly proposed marriage and agreed to take me on, I might have ended up in a sanitorium or a rest home in York or Leeds… or worse." Her smile wavered; if Charles died before she did, she still might end up in such a place, and it frightened her no end that she had very little control over her future at this stage, even in as little a way as what she might try to eat for tea.

"I really don't think Mrs. Patmore would have let it escalate to that," Barrow said with a small smirk. "She's always going on about Mrs. Hughes this and Mrs. Hughes that and –"

"Well, we don't have a reason to find out because as soon as Mrs. Carson is well enough, we will be moving into our cottage," Charles said firmly. "The work will be complete within a month – there will be indoor plumbing and other things that will make for ease and comfort for Mrs. Carson and myself in our old age."

Anna smiled and pressed another kiss to Elsie's forehead. "He really loves you," she murmured to Elsie so only she could hear. "I am glad that you have both found such happiness together."

Elsie didn't want to break the poor girl who she thought of as a kind of a daughter by admitting that she didn't know how happy she was or could ever be; that she struggled mentally, emotionally, and physically by the minute and couldn't even lean on Charles fully because she was terrified if she did, he would weary of her constant needs and taking and decide that he'd gotten the thin end of the stick and up and leave. "You come see me," she said softly. "When you need to talk, all right? Because you cannae keep it all inside and stay strong, my girl – you cannae."

"Neither can you," Anna warned.

"I'm fine," Elsie lied, hopefully convincingly. "Better every day now."

"Mrs. Bates, we need to get back," Barrow said, "but I'll make sure you can get away for a while tomorrow if that will suit Mrs. Carson."

"That would be lovely, Thomas," Elsie said softly. "But only if the house won't go all to pieces. Can't have it all go to pot again on my account – once was enough." Her eyes welled up with tears and her lips wibbled where they were pressed tightly together.

"That wasn't your fault," Barrow said, "and anyone that says it was is a liar. Anyone could've fallen down those stairs, Mrs. Carson – _anyone_. We are all pleased that you are alive and well as can be expected, given the circumstances. And to be marrying Mr. Carson within the month of your waking up and beginning your recovery? It is a blessing for you both."

A whirlwind of people spun through the room over the next couple of hours, and Elsie began to get tired but she struggled valiantly along, smiling and greeting everyone's well wishes with heartfelt joy. "Dearest, are you…" Charles said softly, touching her shoulder.

"I'm fine," she murmured, looking up at him with a small smile as they waited for the next guest.

"Mr. Branson," Charles said with a small amount of surprise in his tone. "I didn't expect to see you – and Miss Sybbie – today…"

Tom Branson smiled and passed his infant daughter to Charles, who immediately hugged the small girl close and began to coo softly to her as a grandfather or a beloved uncle would. "I couldn't not be here to congratulate you both," Tom said. "How are you feeling, Mrs. Carson? A bit tired, I would expect."

"I've been worse," Elsie said with a chuckle. She had to admit: she did not remember Branson clearly from before the accident, just that he had married Lady Sybil and had once been the chauffer. He had come by the hospital several times after Charles had told her about Sybil's passing and they had talked about the young woman and their shared bond through her, and had a comfortable kind of a way about them now. "How are you?"

"I've been worse," he shot back with a wry smirk. "Mr. Carson, will you not share Sybbie with Mrs. Carson?"

Charles cleared his throat, clearly embarrassed. "Ah, yes," he said, bringing the baby over and helping her into Elsie's embrace. "Easy does it, my girls," he said with a smile. Sybbie was having none of it; she liked the man with the deep voice and the warm body, so as soon as she was in Elsie's arms, she started to sniffle and cry out. "Oh, come now – that's enough of that, Miss Sybbie. Auntie Elsie just wants a bit of a cuddle, now, love."

"Oh goodness," Elsie murmured, rubbing the baby's back and cuddling her against her shoulder. "Hush now, love – it will be all right, darling. I wouldn't want a cuddle with me right now, either; not nearly enough padding to be comfortable, aye… I'm all skin and bones, aren't I? Poor little lassie, hush now… Auntie Elsie's got you," she whispered. "I willnae let anythin' happen to you. Shh, dry those tears. There's a good lass." The baby's cries died to soft hiccupping whimpers, then nothing as she buried her face in Elsie's shoulder and snuggled up.

"Are you sure you're not too tired?" Charles asked worriedly.

Elsie smiled and shook her head. "I'll never be too tired for Miss Sybbie or Master George," she said softly. "Not when they need me."

"I hear you're to be named George's godparents," Tom said cheerfully. "Or at least one set of them, anyway. And I am glad of it – you can't have a bunch of toffs and not have any sense at all. I mean, well…" He paused, then cleared his throat. "Sybil wanted Mrs. Hughes to be named godmother to our child, but under the circumstances, it didn't happen."

Elsie felt a pang of pain – what emotion it really was, she couldn't define; maybe several twined together, exonerably mixed – slice through her, leaving her with a sick feeling in her gut that would not subside. "Yes, well… life is not always what we would want, Mr. Branson," she said softly, pressing a kiss into Sybbie's dark hair, rewarded with a contended snuffling coo from the baby.

"But under the circumstances," Tom continued, "I think that Aunt and Uncle Carson would be a very good thing – especially if we stay here at Downton. So she doesn't feel alienated when George spends time with you. If you're willing, that is… I mean, Mr. Carson has already been…"

"I am already Uncle Charlie to Miss Sybbie," Charles said softly. "Mr. Branson brought it up to me not long after Lady Sybil's funeral, when I was still working at the house and caring for you and we were all struggling with… many things. I found myself stealing moments in the nursery with Miss Sybbie to console myself, and needs must."

Elsie gave the little girl another kiss and smiled. "I would be honored to be Auntie Elsie to this lovely lass," she said softly. "Mr. Branson, Sybil loved you very much – I know that for a fact. And she would be very proud of you for admitting that you need help and you cannot raise this child on your own. There is no shame in it; do you understand? There is no shame in your grief."

Sybbie moved around, rearing back so she could look at Elsie's face. Elsie smiled and shifted the baby so she was sitting on her waist and could look up at her. Tiny fingers kept tugging on Elsie's plait – she couldn't get her hair pinned up decently – and her dressing down curiously.

"And there is no shame in yours, Mrs. Carson," Tom said as he watched.

"I'm not grieving," Elsie scoffed. "I've just been married – I am the happiest I've ever been in my life."

Charles snorted a laugh. "And I am the King of all Britain."

"You are grieving the loss of the woman you were," Tom said. "There is a part of you that died in that fall and you can never get it back; your life will never be the same. How can it be? But we can help, Mrs. Carson. Sybbie and I want to help."

Elsie looked down at the tiny tot on her lap and smiled. "Do you want to help, my love?" she asked in a sing-song voice. "Do you want to help Auntie Elsie get better? Oh, I do hope so." The baby gave her a sunny, drooly smile with a couple of teeth and clapped her hands eagerly as if she were ready to assist already.

Charles just stood there, watching and smiling, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

* * *

Charles jerked awake; the sound of crying was what had awakened him, but he wasn't entirely certain how to react to it. "Elsie?"

"Go back to sleep," was her tearful, muffled reply.

He sat up, still groggy, but gaining wakefulness with every moment. "Are you in pain, dearest? Do I need to –"

"No, Charles, go back to sleep."

"Elsie –"

"I'm fine –"

"Clearly, you aren't any such thing." He turned on the electric lamp and winced at the light that pierced the room, feeble as it was. "What's the matter, love?"

"We got married," she said. "It's our wedding night and you're over in that cot and I know it isn't what you ever dreamt of your wedding night being and – oh, Charlie, I'm so sorry…"

He blinked, too tired to sort out what was really going on. "Elsie, love, there's plenty of time for all of that later – when you're well. Now really isn't the time," he pointed out gently. "Are you really that upset that we're not going to have a full marriage immediately?"

"No –"

"Well, then, why are you crying?"

"I'm upset that I've done nothing at all to please you as a wife. I am a miserable failure already, and I've not even been your wife a full day," she mumbled miserably.

His brow creased and he sighed. "No, you have not failed in any way, Elsie – not in any way, love," Charles assured her, rubbing his face with his hands. "My dearest darling," he said, his voice lowering with gentle earnest, "there is no way in which you could fail me."

"We haven't kissed," Elsie said. "Even when Mr. Travis married us."

He paused, frowning. "Elsie, do you think that I am preoccupied with –"

"No, but I do think that you put me first," she said softly, swiping at her eyes. "And I am not the only person in our marriage, Charles."

He scowled and gestured for her to scoot over on her little bed. "Budge up, Mrs. Hughes," Charles ordered none-too-gently. Once he was flush against her on the bed, he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her deeply. "_I love you_," he said. "Do you understand that?" She nodded and he kissed her again. "Good," he whispered against her lips. "Because I mean it."

"And I love you, Charlie," she replied. "Why didn't you tell me about Miss Sybbie and Mr. Branson? Did you think I would be cross or –"

"I didn't want to add to your burdens," he said with a sigh, stroking the loose hair back out of her face. "Everything must seem a burden at the moment."

"Not a burden," she said, "but not exactly convenient, either."

"I didn't want it to be one more thing for you to worry about, love," he said softly. "Because you have so many things to worry about."

"Feels like I never stop worrying," she mumbled, and he ever so gently rubbed her arm in reassurance. "Charlie, will it ever get better?"

"Elsie, it already has," he said. "Now, close your eyes, dearest, and lean into me."

"Charlie, this cannae be what you wanted for –"

"Elsie, I wanted you, and I have you. Isn't that enough? We are husband and wife. What is mine is yours. We are Mr. and Mrs. Carson. That is enough, isn't it?"

She let out a shaky breath and whispered, "You have a port wine stain on your thigh and buttocks."

He cleared his throat and mumbled, "You've a better memory than you let on, Mrs. Carson."

"When you swear to yoursel' on all that's holy – and unholy – that there will only ever be one indiscretion, you remember every detail of it," Elsie said very, very quietly. "As far as I knew, we'd only had too much drink and a fumbling… fornication on my settee. There was no love involved, and it was never spoken of again."

He snorted. "There might not have been love on your part, Mrs. Hughes, newly appointed housekeeper with your keys jangling and your hips swaying every which way, but there certainly was every bit of it on my end." He sighed and held her closer. "Yes, maybe we'd had too much to drink, and yes, maybe we took advantage of the situation and each other a bit too readily – we weren't ready for this."

"Define… _this_."

"Love, marriage… supporting one another."

"Looks to me like you're the one doing all the supporting," she commented softly.

"We'll get there, eventually," he teased gently.

"Charles…"

"Hmm?"

"I do love you. Even if it doesn't seem like it much sometimes."

"I know, Elsie."

"You do?"

He nodded and held her a little closer. "Do you remember what you told me that night on the settee?"

"I don't remember much talking being involved," she confessed, "but my memory is a bit dodgy."

"You said I was the only man you trusted enough to be with at all."

She bit her lip and mumbled, "Oh, aye… tis true enough, that."

"I have tried since then to maintain that trust, Elsie, if for no other reason than to keep up the illusion to myself that you might come to harbor some kind of affection for me in time." His fingertips danced across her forearm, covered as it was by her nightgown. He wished that they could be in their bed in their cottage, that circumstances could be different, that they could be celebrating their wedding night in a decidedly different fashion – but this would suffice. A closeness, an intimacy borne of genuine friendship and affection that would carry them through the rest of their lives together was more important than a physical desire. Wasn't it?

"Charlie, I wish we could… do something." She was blushing, and he found it endearing.

"Elsie, love, there's no need for it. I'll not die for want of sexual intercourse – many celibate years have proven that," he grumbled. "You really must put this out of your mind and concentrate on getting better. Only once we've gotten you home and we've established a comfortable life in the cottage should we even begin to worry about such things – and that's quite a way off yet, dearest."

"You're not angry – truly?"

"Not even in the slightest, my love," he assured her with a gentle kiss. "Is that what's had you fretting so you couldn't sleep? Poor lass. You should have just said and I would have set your mind at ease right off." He would never confess that he was vaguely disappointed on some level, but it really didn't signify at all. He knew the score and he knew that she was more important than any physical act of a sexual nature.

"Why do you suppose Lady Sybil wanted me to be a godmother to her bairn?" Elsie asked, changing the subject abruptly from the uncomfortable topic of marital relations. "For that matter, why on earth would your blessed Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew want us to be godparents to Master George?"

"Because the world is changing," Charles said softly, "and they see us as family as much as their own. It is touching, and kindness –"

"Bloody cheek is what it is," Elsie sighed. "No' to mention I cannae even attend the christening – you'll have to go in my place, Charlie."

"We'll have you ready for the world by then," he promised.

"The world won't be ready for me," she muttered. "The church has seven steps, remember? I cannae get in, Charlie."

"Stop worrying so much," he insisted, kissing away anymore protests she might have made. "Now, Elsie May Carson, my loving wife, it is half past three in the morning – and you need your rest."

"Yes, but…"

"But nothing, love –"

"Charlie," Elsie interjected, "I'm a wee bit hungry."

He paused, then smiled. "What would you like?"

"Maybe just a piece of the shortbread Mrs. Patmore left us earlier," Elsie said. He hopped up and retrieved the treat, eager to comply – she hadn't asked for food willingly in days, and he wasn't about to deny her wish. He also poured her a glass of water and then settled back in on the small twin bed with her, close as he could be. When she was finished eating and primly licking the crumbs off her fingers, she curled around him like a contented cat and went straight to sleep, exhaustion finally claiming her.

Charles turned off the lamp and settled in, letting her breathing lull him to sleep. He was grateful for everything that they had, and for everything yet to come; and he was counting his blessings to every breath she took.


	13. Chapter 13

XIII:

* * *

"Even if I could go to the christening – which I cannot because how could I possibly get into and out of the church, Charles? – I've got no clothes at all that fit me and I'll be damned to hell for all eternity before I sit in the house of God in my nightgown, dressing gown, and slippers," Elsie said, her voice quavering despite the firmness of her words. "No, I'll stay here. You must go for the both of us. They wouldn't want me in the photos, anyway – some old woman in a push chair, ruining their lovely photos. Not exactly the best impression for the nobility to have sitting on a side table, and we all know how the honor of the family is –"

"Elsie, calm yourself, please," Charles said earnestly, trapping her wildly flailing hands in his and holding them still. "Dearest, look at me. _Look at me_." He waited until she did just that, finally, hesitantly peeping up from beneath her eyelashes. "I know you are worried, but the details will resolve themselves." It had only been a week since their wedding and her incessant need to know every little thing about what was going on around her – because she was absolutely stir-crazy in her hospital bed – was beginning to drive him mad.

"I have spent my life in service to the details," she reminded him with no small amount of acidity to her tone, "and they do not just _resolve themselves_."

"You do not need to be involved in planning out every little detail," he said softly. "You cannot be involved, love – not from your bed. It isn't practical."

"Oh, but it's practical for me to be dragged out of my bed to go on a dog and pony show when it's convenient for the blessed family, then?" Elsie said, her frown deepening and tears beginning to form in her eyes. "Charlie… I am trying – I am."

"I know you are, Elsie, love," he assured her softly.

"But I've no' got the strength to –"

"Dearest," he interrupted.

"I wish you'd stop doin' that!" she exploded, yanking her hands out of his and jabbing one of her index fingers viciously into his chest. "Always cuttin' me off and tellin' me what I do and don't mean like I dinnae hae me own mind. My memory may be a little bit broken, Charles Carson, but my mental faculties are fully intact, let me tell you – and I'll tell you another thing. I will worry about whatever I so choose. You might be my husband, but you cannae bully me and order me about like a big lout of a man just because I am stuck in this bed and cannae leave without your assistance. D'ye hear me? I love you, but by God, right now, I hate the very sight o'ye. Go away. Get ou'. Le'me alone, damn you, Charlie."

He sat back and sighed; she was being irrational and unreasonable, and had been since the nurse had worn her out earlier with exercises and all but forced her to eat a small bowl of stew. Dr. Clarkson had had enough of Elsie's seeming willfulness not to get better at all, and was going to force the issue, much to Charles's dismay – he knew just how stubborn Elsie Hughes could, and would, be if pushed to her limits, and he did not want to endure a breakdown of their marriage quite so soon, if you please. "I am not going anywhere," Charles said, "so you may cease throwing your tantrum at any point in time because it is only succeeding in making you look quite ridiculous, Elsie."

"I am not throwing a tantrum." She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him.

"What would you call it, then?"

"I am very cross with you because you willnae take any of my concerns seriously and treat me like I am nothing more than an invalid infant – and I am no' as bad as that," she spat, her voice deepening as her accent crept in thicker and heavier with emotion.

"You won't do as the doctor says you need to in order to begin to progress in getting better – like eating. Why won't you eat?" he challenged, gesturing between them. "You barely pick at your food, and I practically had to threaten you earlier to get you to eat that stew –"

"I eat broth and crackers – it isn't as if I'm starving mesel'," she scoffed.

A thousand retorts flew through his mind, each angrier than the last. He finally settled on, "Elsie, you weigh less than 7 stone."

"Aye, you have a thin wife," she said with a wry smile. "That should please you, Mr. Carson."

"Indeed it does not," Charles said. "Not when I have spent so many hours remembering with fondness the delectable roundness and curve of my lovely wife's lush bottom and – Mrs. Carson, please do not take this as censure, because it is not. I am concerned and I love you as much as I can love another being not of my own body; please tell me why you will not eat and try to regain your strength, for my sake if not your own." He reached over and stroked her forearm kindly with such tenderness he thought he might die with frustration if she did not acknowledge his overture.

She hesitated and sighed. "Do you really love my… bottom so much, Charles?"

"Elsie, I love every bit of you," he said. "From your head to your toes, your fingers to your nose. Of course I love your bottom – it also has the distinction of being one of the few pieces of you that I was allowed to caress intimately during our indiscretion."

She blushed very prettily then and bit back a small smile. But just as quickly, she became serious again. "I don't want to eat because it hurts," Elsie confessed in a tiny voice. "I get such bad heartburn even from the broth and crackers, and every time I try to eat anything more substantial, my throat burns all the way down into my stomach like it's on fire. It's all I can do to keep anything at all down, Charlie, and I'm scared. I'm terrified I'll no' be able to recover from this. And you want me to, so badly – but I can only fight so many battles. I'm losing the war."

His heart very nearly ceased to beat upon hearing the truth leave her lips; how could he not have realized, how could he not have known that she was in so much pain just from eating? Charles reached out and stroked her hair and whispered, "Elsie, why didn't you say?"

"I cannae bear to disappoint you again," she murmured, looking away from him. "Ye never come out an' say that ye are, because ye're too good to me, Charlie, but I know ye are. Ye get a look on yer face an' ye don' look me in the eye."

"I am disappointed in myself," he sighed, "because I cannot help. Because there is nothing more I can do to help."

"Well, you married an old frail woman, so there is another disappointment to add to your pile, Charles," she whispered, unwilling to look at him. "My stomach is burning from the stew I ate earlier and I'm struggling not to be sick. The only thing I know is if I am to vomit, it will pain me so much worse than now."

It hit him then, with force, deep in the heart, a pain that enveloped his being. "Oh god," Charles managed to profane as he lowered his face into his hands. "Elsie, please forgive me – dearest, please… I didn't… I wasn't thinking," he stammered.

She turned to face him, her eyes swimming with tears. "What are you on about?" Elsie muttered.

"I've been thinking like the doctor, like the nurses – about how you need to recover and get back to your old self and… and I just realized that with everything that has happened, with the damages your body sustained, you cannot possibly go back to being just as you were," he said. "And we are foolish to force you to attempt to try."

She looked at him with dark suspicion in her eyes, the start of a sneer on her lips. "Oh really?" The sarcasm practically radiated off of her in waves. "You just now came to that conclusion? Very kind of you to notice, Charlie, that my debilitating disabilities are probably not just going to go away – especially after I've been tellin' you that I cannae _do_ things."

"Elsie –"

"Why do ye think I'm so angry wi' the worl'?" she snapped. "Why do ye think I seriously thought about goin' to a home in York instead of marryin' ye? Because I'm no' going to get _better_ in the way ye hoped. And it's no' fair to make false promises in the face of God, is it? No' even when you love someone."

He leaned in and cupped her face in his hands, gently turning her to face him. "Better is an arbitrary term," Charles whispered. "We can use it to define your recovery however you wish, Elsie – if you want to walk, we can use it for that. If you want to be able to eat without pain, we can use it for that. If you want to remember coming to Downton…"

"I've tried," Elsie whispered. "The last thing I remember is leaving Glasgow but that was in '92, long before… I know I was at the farm when Mam had her cancer and that was two years, but… I dinnae remember comin' to Downton or –"

"You were in London before Downton," he said softly, "with the Painswicks."

"Was I?" Elsie said, her brow furrowed. "I dinnae recall."

"It's all right, dearest – Rome wasn't built in a day, despite the rumor," he assured her, giving her a kiss.

"It's like walking along and running into a cavernous hole in the ground," she sighed, leaning into him as he joined her on the bed, holding her gently as to not upset her stomach further. "And if you jump into it, you dinnae know how deep it is or how low down the light will go or if you'll ever stop fallin'… so you just skirt 'roun' the edge and run away till you run intae the nex' one. An' there are so many holes like that in me mem'ry."

"I know, love," he whispered, breathing the ghost of a kiss over her cheek, making her moan in soft appreciation. "If I could do anything to help, I would…"

"Do you know why I came to Downton?" she asked, her brow furrowing.

"Lady Rosamund asked it as a special favor is all I know," Charles said gently. "But you don't remember, do you?"

Elsie shook her head, looked down at her hands. "I cannae remember. I don' remember much of the first year I were here."

Charles tucked her head under his chin and held her close. "You arrived on the third of April, in the middle of a torrential storm," he said softly, "a day earlier than we were expecting you because Lady Rosamund got the dates wrong and sent you ahead. Instead of hiring a hansom at the station, you walked – it hadn't begun to rain yet, and you'd felt you could traverse two miles from the village to the house before it did. Unfortunately, it began to pour rain halfway through your journey, and by the time you reached the Abbey, you and your things were beyond soaked."

"I must have been such a mess," Elsie sighed. "You must have been horrified."

"The other servants were horrified, dearest – I was busy serving tea in the library when you arrived." He smiled wanly. "By the time I came downstairs, everything was abuzz with how uncouth the new Head Housemaid was, being from Scotland and covered in mud and soaked to the bone. You were in the Housekeeper's sitting room in your underpinnings and her housecoat while your things dried when I came in to introduce myself."

Her breathing changed slightly, and she murmured, "Were you terribly shocked?"

"By your state of undress perhaps, yes… By your beauty, definitely," he said. She had been a revelation: in the light of the fire and the candles, she had been all pale cheekbones and hair aglow like flames of wine, her body lush curves barely contained by the dressing gown and god, how he had wanted such things that had shamed him at the time. Now, he knew that it had been more than just animal lust and yearnings, but then? Then, he had been so angry with himself for feeling such things. "I could not understand why a woman of your loveliness was not already married."

She laughed and sighed. "Ah, well… you know now." She snuggled closer to him. "I wish I remembered more," Elsie whispered.

"I am afraid you don't," he said. "I was not exactly kindness to you that first year."

"No matter," she said softly. "It was still time we spent together, Charles. And I would give anything to have it back, even if it wasn't the kindest of times."

"When you were promoted to Housekeeper, everything changed," he said softly.

"Did it?"

"We were equals." He held her hand, twining their fingers together. "And you were not afraid to put me in my place when needed – but, oh, how it smarted, getting bested by a slip of a woman."

"I never was a slip of a woman, Charlie," Elsie chuckled. "A bit too fond of me food, I was. Probably why you were so fond of my bottom." He could hear the smile in her teasing tone, was glad of it.

"You invited me to your sitting room for a glass of whiskey and a negotiation of hostilities in preemption of a cease fire," he said, "and you just kept flitting about, moving things around and shuffling like a nervous butterfly."

"Ah, yes," Elsie said, swallowing hard. "We'd been arguing about something stupid that wasn't going to resolve itself without concessions on both sides, and I felt I should be the bigger man and be the first to concede ground. I don't even remember what we were fighting about."

"Neither do I," Charles replied, smiling. "It doesn't matter much, considering it ended so pleasantly…"

"Ah, yes, with both of us more than slightly tiddly on the grog and me w'me skirts around me waist and you w'yer hands all over me bum," Elsie mumbled.

"Elsie Carson," Charles rumbled low in his throat, "I'll have you know, I was not as drunk as all that, and neither were you. Two small scotches have never been enough to derail either of us."

Her thumb had been caressing the back of his hand; it stilled abruptly, and her breath shuddered to a quick halt. "What are you… what do you… what do you mean, Charles?"

"I think enough time has gone by for us to be honest with ourselves and each other; we shouldn't be blaming the drink for something we both clearly wanted and needed," Charles said softly, disjointed memories dancing across his mind like torn up bits of the flicker show. "We ignored the rules and made love, and then, we went back into our proper little boxes and were the perfect, proper servants. And the whole time, all I wanted was to offer you my hand and drag you away to a new adventure, Elsie. Somewhere we didn't have to pretend to not care about one another –"

"Oh, Charlie, you silly man, I always cared," she whispered. "Why do ye think ye never had to mend yer socks and undershorts?"

His brow furrowed. "That was you?"

"I always caught them before they made it to the mending pile," Elsie murmured.

"Why did we waste so much time?" His frustration was palpable, like a living, growing thing between them. He had loved her for so long, had stomped down his feelings and kept them in check by sheer force of willpower, and for what? Why? "Elsie…"

"Because it wasnae right and it wasnae proper," she said softly. "It shouldnae have happened, Charlie – I should never have kissed you."

He closed his eyes and inhaled, pressing his nose to the top of her head and just breathing in for a long moment. "I am ever so glad you did," Charles rumbled against her hair. "It was wonderful, Elsie, that kiss. Like every bit of heaven come down to earth just for me."

"I think ye'r givin' me far too much credit – I barely knew where to put me lips," she scoffed.

"Do you know how lovely your voice is when you aren't trying to hide your accent?" Charles asked, squeezing her fingers with his. "It's like ancient fairies – or – "

"More like a crone," Elsie chuckled. "I sound like some old witcher woman from the ol' mill, Charlie, and no better than I ought to be." She sighed and murmured, "We were very poor, we were. Barely had the clothes on our backs and the beasties on the land. Only reason I had shoes was because Mam begged them from the mission barrels while Becky were in school in London." She shook her head and sighed again. "I tried so hard to not be wild, Charles, but I never lost the feelin' of the wind in me hair or the peat 'tween me toes."

"Well, you don't have to worry any longer about anything like that," he whispered. "You're safe – and Becky is safe. We are secure for the foreseeable future, and I have worked with Mr. Matthew to make provisions for you and Becky should something happen to me." Charles frowned and kissed the top of her head. "My grandmum was born on the home farm," he said. "She was the sixteenth of eighteen, and the scrawniest little thing that ever drew breath according to her sisters. When she was five, she was sent to the big house to train as a scullery maid, and she was taking out the scraps and lighting fires from then till she was eight. After that, she did the fires and began to wash dishes. All of her money went back to the farm, until she was fifteen. Then she was allowed to keep a stipend to pay for her own uniform, and for new shoes. By then, she was a kitchen maid and learning how to prepare ingredients. By the time she was thirty, she was the head cook and married – very briefly – to the head groom. He died in a hunting accident not long after my father was born. She kept her position until she had a severe stroke and became paralyzed in part of her body." He took a deep breath. "I was very young and my parents thought that it would do me good to spend time with her. I didn't want to – I wanted to be with the other boys my own age, and I know now it was horribly selfish of me. I was a terrible child, Elsie, and I hated every second I spent nursing Granny."

"You were just a little boy," she murmured. "She knew you didn't mean annathin' you said in anger, Charlie. You loved her verra much. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

"I am trying to do better by you, Elsie – but it is so_ difficult_."

"You mean that _I'm_ difficult," she supplied.

"No –"

"Oh, don't deny it." She sighed heavily and snuggled even closer to him. "I am impossible, Charles, and you can say so. It must have been much easier when you could just put a tube down me and pour gruel into my stomach."

He shook his head and sighed. "That's probably why you're so sick now," he said. "I should never have let it happen, Elsie – I should never have –"

"But then I would have wasted away."

He laughed, the sound bitter and hollow. "Just like you are now?"

"Touché," she agreed wryly.

"I'll speak to Mrs. Patmore tomorrow and see what she can come up with that might soothe your throat, like a custard or a fruit jelly," he said softly. "Anything to help you eat."

"No stew, please," she murmured. "I've got such heartburn you wouldn't believe."

"No stew," he agreed. "But we need to find something –"

"Oh god, yes, I am famished," she sighed, "but the idea of trying to… oh, I don't think I can even think about it, Charles."

He frowned and kissed her head again. "Elsie?"

"Hmm?"

"O'Brien and Anna have been working on a new dress for you to wear to Master George's christening," he said. "It should be finished tomorrow. It was meant to be a surprise."

"But, Charles, how _ever_ am I to participate in the ceremony such as I am?" she asked with trepidation. "Won't it be –"

"It will not be a problem for Lady Mary or Mr. Matthew," Charles promised. "And Dr. Clarkson has arranged for a push chair to be taken for inside the church, and one for outside the church."

"Two? What a waste!" Elsie said, biting her lip.

"Dearest," Charles said, scowling down into her hair, "it is the only feasible way with that many steps. I will carry you inside."

"But your back –"

"You weigh far less than you'd like to believe," he pointed out.

"Why are you doing this – why…?"

"Dearest, you are George's godmother, and you deserve to be there," Charles said. "It is as simple as that. And Lady Mary and Mr. Matthew refused to take no for an answer, so we have been trying tirelessly to make it happen while keeping you unaware of the details because…"

"Because I have been a depressed stick in the mud?" she challenged.

"Because you have been a bit challenging," he amended.

"Oh, Charlie, you are too good for the likes of me," she lamented, burrowing as closely into him as possible without inhabiting his clothing with him. "I dinnae know what I did to deserve you –"

He gave her another kiss and smiled. "No more of that talk, if you please, Mrs. Carson, for it is patently untruth, and my lovely wife shouldn't lie," he said softly. "Now… rest, love, and then we'll see about more broth and crackers until I can speak to Beryl."


End file.
